


The Road to Nevada

by lamardeuse



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-20
Updated: 2010-05-20
Packaged: 2017-10-09 14:50:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 38,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU set in 1930's era North America in which aircraft engineer Rodney McKay encounters down-on-his-luck pilot John Sheppard, and there is mayhem, adventure, romance, Nazis and nasty aliens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Road to Nevada

**Author's Note:**

> Please note: This story is set in the past, and thus in the interests of historical accuracy, the more enlightened terms we know today are not always used.
> 
> Many thanks to Femme for her generous encouragement, to _inbetween_ for her correction of my German and to Jim for his expertise on planes and matters military, for the name of Rodney's company and for his suggestion about the final destination of our heroes. Any errors are mine.
> 
> Written for the SGA Santa community on LiveJournal.
> 
> Please see the end notes for an additional warning.

**Chapter One  
**

  


 

The day John Sheppard met Rodney McKay happened to be, by an astonishing coincidence, the day he fell out of the sky for the second time.

John’d been having trouble making ends meet the past couple of months, and so when he’d gotten a telegram from an old Army buddy telling him about a big opportunity to be had at a race in Toronto, he’d jumped at the chance.  It took him three days of hitching rides, but he made it over the border and out to the field, a grass strip on the western edge of town.

The sky was clear and perfect, and the wind was moderate but steady off Lake Ontario.  John settled his pack over his shoulder and headed straight for the nearest plane, a sleek, gorgeous monocoque design that looked a little like one of the new Supermarines.   He walked around the nose and found a pair of legs and an ass encased in greasy blue overalls sticking out of the engine compartment.

The ass was pretty nice, actually, and it was wiggling back and forth in a way that made John forget what he was going to ask for a minute.  

“Uh, excuse me,” he called.  

A soft _thud _emerged from the engine compartment.  “Goddammit!” the ass yelled.  John winced.

“Sorry.  I’m looking for the—” he fumbled the crumpled telegram out of his pocket and scanned it “—Dominion Aeroworks plane.  Could you tell me where I can find it?”

“You’ve found it,” the ass said, slowly wiggling its way free from the guts of the engine.  It was attached, John soon discovered, to a beefy torso topped by a scowling face and a thinning thatch of hair that had been severely rearranged by its abrupt contact with the cowling hatch.

John countered the sour expression with a smile; the first thing you learned as a pilot was never to piss off the ground crew.  “Hiya,” he said, sticking out a hand.  “I’m Sheppard.  Max Anderson’s friend.”

The other man continued to scowl, but he took the offered hand after wiping his own on the leg of his overalls.  “Another American?” he asked with a curl of his wide lip.

John reminded himself that he really needed this job before answering.  “Last time I checked,” he replied easily.  

“Hm,” grunted the stranger.  Crystal-clear blue eyes as bright as the sky above them looked him up and down like a disapproving drill sergeant.  “Considering that less than four days after he was hired Anderson managed to get drunk, smash his car and break his fool leg, I’m not sure why his buddy should be an acceptable substitute.”

John’s gut took a nose dive.  He’d come eight hundred miles to walk onto this field with exactly two bits and the hope of a good paying job.  It was starting to look like he’d have to manage another eight hundred on just the two bits.  “Listen, brother, Max said Dominion had a job for a top notch flier.  If you don’t mind pointing the way to your boss, I’ll just—”

“You’re top notch, are you?”  That dismissing gaze roamed his rumpled clothes, and John felt his face go hot.

Patience finally exhausted, he growled,  “It took me three days to get here, traveling nonstop.  I’m beat, I need a bath and a shave, and I haven’t eaten since the day before yesterday.”  He returned the visual reconnaissance sweep, ending it at the top of the man’s disheveled head.  “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re not the freshest daisy in the field either.”

The other guy’s mouth thinned dangerously, and John noticed it had a tilt to it.  “Thank you for pointing out the obvious,” he sneered.  “Perhaps I should introduce myself:  my name is Rodney McKay.”

John raised his eyebrows.  “That supposed to mean something to me?”

McKay’s lopsided mouth twitched at the corner.  “I’m the owner of Dominion Aeroworks.”

“Oh,” John said, his gut crashing and burning on the tarmac.  “Good for you.”  He paused, then thought, _what the hell_.  “So, do I get the job or what?”

McKay stared at him, mouth slackening.  “It’s really true,” he marveled.  “All of you Yanks have got balls of brass.”

“Solid, four inch radius.”

This time it was McKay’s eyebrows that climbed.  “You mean diameter.”

“I mean radius.”

McKay stared at him for another moment, then to Sheppard’s surprise snorted and smirked.  “I take it you’ve flown monoplanes before?”

“A few,” John hedged, figuring two was close enough to ‘a few’ to pass inspection.  “None as gorgeous as this one, though.”

McKay’s demeanor brightened considerably at that.  “This is my latest design,” he said proudly, laying a hand on the aluminum skin.  John noted absently that his hands were broad and callused.  “Variable pitch propeller, retractable landing gear, and a supercharged engine.  She’ll cruise at two eighty and never break a sweat.”

John tried not to be charmed by the way McKay looked at his machine with real affection.  It was a look he’d given planes himself on occasion, usually when they carried him safely back to earth after a dangerous flight.  “What’s her top speed?” he asked.

McKay shook his head.  “It hasn’t been fully tested yet,” he replied sadly.  

“You must have a regular test pilot,” John said, surprised.  

“I did.  He disappeared last week.  That’s why I hired your friend Anderson.”

John frowned.  “What do you mean, disappeared?”

“You don’t know what ‘disappeared’ means?”

“I know what ‘disappeared’ means, McKay…”

“—vanished, gone, no longer there?”

John groaned and threw up his hands.  

“He was another Yank,” McKay mused.  “Maybe you knew him?”

John rolled his eyes.  “Sure, because everybody knows one another in the U. S. of A.”

“His name was Marshall Sumner.”

“Holy shit,” John breathed.

“So I’ll take that as a yes?” McKay asked acidly.  

Marshall Sumner.  John hadn’t heard that name in almost twenty years.  He’d been a good CO, if a little too by-the-book.  He was also a hell of a pilot, and John was glad to hear he’d obviously recovered from the mishap that had gotten him invalided back to England and back home shortly thereafter.  Too many good men had never made it back from that hellhole.

“Yeah, I guess I’ve heard of him.  He was my squadron commander in the war.”

McKay eyed him skeptically.  “You don’t look old enough to have served.”

“I lied about my age,” John said, shrugging.  “I wanted to fly.”

McKay’s crooked mouth got slightly more crooked at that; John figured that meant he was thinking about something.  “All right,” McKay said after a moment.  “Since I’m hard against it, I’m going to have to give you a try.  The race starts at two and it’s now…” he checked his wristwatch “half past eight.  That’ll give you time to take her up to get the feel of her before the race.”  

John’s stomach chose that moment to emit a loud growl.

“But before we do that,” McKay said, “We’d better feed you, hm?  I don’t want you passing out from manly hunger when you’re racing my ship.”

John thought about his twenty-five cents.  Fifteen would get him a decent breakfast, but unless McKay paid him right after the race he’d have to sleep under the stars tonight.  Oh, well, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t done it before.

“There’s a great diner just down the road,” McKay said.  “My treat.”

John shook his head.  “No, thanks.  I mean, yes to the diner, no to the treat.”

“Don’t be stupid,” McKay said shortly.  Surprisingly strong fingers wrapped around John’s bicep and began tugging him toward an open top coupe.  “When you work for me, food is one of the perks.”  He blinked.  “Well.  Actually it’s the only perk, but that’s beside the point.”

Sighing, John let himself be dragged, because he was too hungry by now to really give a damn about his pride, and because he really wanted to fly that beautiful bird of McKay’s.  It had been six weeks since he’d been up in the sky, and the itch was turning into an ache.    
“Are flapjacks part of the perks?” John asked as he walked around to the passenger side of the car.

McKay met his gaze.  “All you can eat.”

“Mister, you got yourself a deal,” John said, opening the door and climbing in.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
“Remember, she’s a little unstable in a steep turn!” McKay yelled over the roar of the engine.  “So make sure you—”

John waved at him impatiently.  McKay had already told him everything he needed to know about his pride and joy six times over breakfast.  “I got it!” he yelled back.  “Don’t worry!”

McKay flung up his hands.  “I always worry!” he shouted.  

“Get off the wing, McKay!”  John ordered.  “Or I’m taking off with you on it!”

McKay shot him a murderous glare, but did as he was told.  As soon as he was clear, John nudged the stick slightly and the plane began to move forward.

Soon he was racing down the strip, feeling the aircraft respond to his every twitch, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline as he picked up speed.  He opened the throttle, trimmed the nose up and lowered the flaps, and the bird shot into the air like a perfectly aimed arrow.

“God, you are a gorgeous creature,” John murmured as the powerful vibration of the engine suffused his body and the wide, streamlined wings lifted him higher and higher.  Times like this, John knew exactly why he’d been put on this earth; flying gave him a sense of purpose like nothing and no one ever had.  

Because he didn’t really want to give his new boss a heart attack, he took it up slowly and spent a good ten or fifteen minutes learning the way it handled.  McKay’s design was a sound one, if slightly revolutionary.  John’s initial impression of a Supermarine had been off, because this ship was much more fluid than that company’s designs, the wings sprouting almost organically from the fuselage.  They were wide for a racer but not as round as the British ones, tapering more like a Dak’s.  It was like flying on the back of a living thing, and John needed only seconds to know he loved it.  He had a sudden burst of jealousy for his old CO, because as soon as Sumner got back from wherever he was, John wasn’t going to get to ride this beautiful animal any more.  Any flier would have to be dumb, dead or crazy not to want to keep this job for as long as he could.

After he’d learned the feel of her, he opened it up again and took her into a steep climb, grinning when he pictured McKay’s wide mouth dropping open in shock.  McKay was a strange duck; John had figured that out somewhere between his fifth and sixth flapjack.  He was obviously well-educated, but he looked and moved like a grease monkey, and the clothes under the overalls were as messy and cheap as John’s.  He was abrasive and seriously lacking in manners, but he had a deep passion for aircraft and technical innovation, as was made clear by his nonstop patter while John ate.  John knew enough about the mechanical side of the machines he flew to perform some basic maintenance, but the level of knowledge that McKay exhibited was stunning.  

McKay might have the arrogance and temperament of a genius, but John was beginning to think it was warranted.  The ship climbed like it was being pulled by a wire attached to the moon, and when he turned her over, she dove almost sweetly toward her death, just because he asked her to.  When he pulled back, she barely shuddered before responding, fighting gravity with every ounce of strength in her and winning easily.

Just for the hell of it, he leveled out at a hundred feet and went screaming down the length of the field before climbing again.  He picked out McKay easily; he was hopping around like a flea on a hot griddle, hands flailing madly in the air.  John gave him a merry salute and pulled into another steep climb.

When he was up at about three thousand, he leveled off once more and tried a couple of bank-and-rolls.  The stick did balk a little at that, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle.  Time for a little more maneuvering practice, he decided, nosing her over into a more shallow dive this time.

He was halfway to the deck when the engine gave out.

There was no warning, not even a splutter; suddenly the power cut out like it had never been there.  John took a deep breath and tried the electric starter McKay had showed him, but wasn’t surprised when it didn’t engage.

_Okay, _he asked himself_.  What’s the situation?_  He had a parachute – McKay had insisted on it – but he didn’t trust the damned things and by now he was too low to use it anyway.  He immediately grabbed the trim wheel and spun it to keep the nose nice and high, trying to slow his descent and avoid a ground loop when – if – he landed.  Deciding there wasn’t much hope of a restart at this point, he next feathered the props to cut back on the drag.

Heart hammering in his chest, he finally pulled back on the stick and leveled off a couple of hundred feet above the ground.  

“Judas Priest,” John gasped, taking a couple of seconds to breathe, “I’m still alive.”  He looked around him and spied the runway ahead and on his left, but with a dead engine he wasn’t interested in doing a lot of fancy-ass banking to try to line up with it.  The ground straight ahead of him was flat enough, and with the gear still up he figured he could manage a decent belly landing.

Gingerly, he lowered the flaps a little more, wincing when the bird shuddered and dropped suddenly.  By some miracle of McKay’s engineering, she stayed straight and level, and after swallowing his heart again he just let her continue her natural descent as she glided for home.

“Come on, sweetheart, come on, come on, just a little bit more, yeah, you can do it,” he heard himself saying, the encouraging words about all he could contribute at this point.  He was a couple of dozen feet from the ground when the nose dipped; desperately, he cranked the trim wheel all the way, kicking her back enough to lift the nose at the last moment.  The resulting loss of speed brought her down more swiftly than he’d hoped, though, and she slapped the ground with all the grace of a falling brick, skidding only a couple of hundred feet before coming to a stop.

And then everything got incredibly still for a couple of minutes, as it always did whenever John survived something that probably should have killed him.  The fact that he recognized the phenomenon probably meant it had happened far too many times in his life, he reflected.  

The silence was soon broken by the drone of a siren.  He’d missed the runway by about five hundred feet, but like he figured, the adjacent farmer’s field was the next best thing.  He was kind of sorry about the corn, though.

And then he heard what at first sounded like an approaching freight train.  He peered up above the rim of the cockpit and caught sight of Rodney McKay galloping between the rows of half-grown corn as fast as his sturdy legs could carry him.  

“Oh Christ, oh Christ, oh Christ, oh Christ,” he puffed with every step.  Spying John, he skidded to a halt.  “Oh, Christ.  You’re not dead.  Say you’re not dead.”

“I’m not dead,” John assured him.

“Why should I believe you?  Stand up.  Can you stand up?”

In lieu of an answer, John undid the weird belts and harnesses McKay had insisted he wear and stood up.  His back was a little sore, but he was shockingly uninjured considering how hard he’d hit the ground.  Maybe there was something to those “safety measures” McKay had babbled on about after all.

When he was down on terra firma, McKay stepped up to him, closer than most American guys usually did.  John wondered if things like that were different in Canada.

“You’re not dead and you’re not hurt,” McKay said flatly.

John shook his head.  McKay took another step closer, his face unreadable.

“Then would you mind telling me,” McKay said slowly, jabbing a finger into John’s chest with every word, “_why the hell you broke my plane?_”

John leaned forward, using his extra couple of inches to best advantage.  “I didn’t break your damned plane!” he shot back.  “In case you didn’t notice, your plane nearly broke me.”

McKay stepped back and folded his arms across his chest.  “You must have done something.”

“I’ve been flying planes for twenty years, McKay.  I’ve never had one stall on me like that.  It should have been impossible to stall it in that situation through pilot error.”

“Are you saying it was a mechanical flaw?” McKay bristled.

John sighed.  “I don’t know.  Maybe one of your ground crew missed something.”

“I _am _my ground crew,” McKay growled.  

John frowned.  “You’re kidding.”

McKay drew himself up like a peeved puffin.  “I don’t trust anyone else to work on my planes.”

John turned around and walked over to the plane, then climbed up onto the nose, reached down and lifted the hatch on the engine cowling.  McKay scrambled up beside him.  After about a minute John found it.

“One of the fuel lines is disconnected,” he murmured, moving aside so that McKay could see it.  “It must have been loose to begin with, and then the vibration of the engine did the rest.”

“What?  But that’s – that’s impossible.  I always check and double-check all my connections—”  

“Was anyone keeping an eye on the plane while we were gone?”

McKay blinked.  “No.  Are you suggesting sabotage?”

“It’s been known to happen in some races in the States.”

McKay looked away for a moment.  “I didn’t think I’d have a problem with security for  – never mind,” he murmured, finishing abruptly.  

“You got any rivals who want to put you out of business?”

McKay shot him a sharp look.  “Not that I know of,” he snapped, but there was an edge to his voice that was hard to miss.

_You’re a lousy liar, McKay_, he thought, but there was no point in saying that aloud.  John sighed and replaced the engine cowling.  “Well, it’s been fun,” he said heavily, as the gravity – pun intended – of his situation descended on him like a plummeting elephant.  He had no money, no job, and he was stranded in a foreign country.  And he’d thought that 1932 was a shitty year.

“You’re leaving?” McKay asked.

John shrugged.  “Unless you’ve got another plane I can wreck.”

McKay opened his mouth, closed it, then seemed to come to some kind of decision.  “I might have one you can fly, not wreck.”

Well, hell.  _That _was unexpected.  “Sure you can trust me?” John asked, frowning.

McKay gave him that assessing look again.  “Frankly, I don’t know.  All I know is I’ve never seen a pilot land a dead ship as well as you did just now.  I need someone with that level of skill.”

“You want me to fly gliders?”

McKay shook his head; that gleam that John was starting to recognize lit up his eyes.  “No.  Quite the opposite, in fact.”

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
McKay made arrangements for the plane to be towed from the farmer’s field, and then he and John drove up to McKay’s home, which he said was on the shores of the lake a couple of hours out of town.  

Somewhere along the way John must’ve fallen asleep, because when they pulled into McKay’s lane he jerked awake, his neck protesting the sudden movement.

“I tried to wake you up a couple of times,” McKay informed him.  “That position isn’t good for your neck.”

“No kidding,” Sheppard grunted, wincing at the _crack _of his vertebrae as he pushed himself upright in the passenger seat.  “I hate to be whiny, but are we there yet?”

McKay nodded toward the scene out of the front window.  “As a matter of fact, yes we are.”

John looked up – and stared. “Holy smokes,” he breathed.

Now the wad of bills McKay had handed over to the farmer in exchange for his ruined corn made sense.  His house was a mansion, three stories high and built in the Georgian style, with wide crenulated pillars gracing the front of the building.  Huge oak trees lined the gravel driveway, and there was a four-car garage sprouting from the left wing of the house.  Off to the right, just peeking up over the ridge of a small hill, John could see the wide, curved roofs of what had to be aircraft hangars.  There were three of them.

“Hm?” McKay had turned at John’s words, trying to see what he saw, but of course since this was his idea of home it didn’t faze him.  “Oh.  Well.  You see, the main plant is in Ajax – we’ve got a contract to build a line of mail planes – but this is where I do my research and development.”  He made a face.  “I prefer to work alone.”

“Yeah, I kind of caught that already,” John murmured.

McKay’s expression grew even more pinched.  “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”        

John barked a short laugh.  “Believe me, I understand better than you think.  If I had this kind of dough, I’d probably hole up like this, too.”  He eyed McKay.  “But if you’re such a world-hater, how come you compete in races?”

McKay didn’t answer at first.  When he pulled the car up to the garage door closest to the house, he turned to John and said, “Because if I were a complete recluse, I’d get far more unwanted attention than I’d like.  People are generally stupid, but they can become curious about what they don’t understand.”

John considered this.  “And you like to watch your planes beat other people’s planes,” he suggested.

McKay’s face burst into a truly evil smile that John tried not to find sexy.  “That, too,” he said.

They climbed out of the car and walked up the broad steps to the house.  “I imagine you’ll want to get cleaned up before supper,” McKay said.  “I’ll have Beatrice serve around seven?”

“Sounds delightful, old chap.”

McKay narrowed his eyes at him.  “Don’t be cute.”

John only grinned at that.  The strange euphoria that hit him after a near-death experience was walloping him right between the eyes, and it made him giddy, weightless.  Hell, ever since he’d seen that ship this morning he’d felt like he was caught in some kind of fairy tale, and now he was about to enter the castle of the mysterious lord of the manor.

_Yeah, a lord of the manor who has engine grease under his nails,_ John thought.  Reaching the landing, he turned and looked at McKay.  The other man paused on the next to last step, looking up with a half-annoyed, half-confused look on his face.

“What?” McKay demanded.

John shook his head.  “I’m just trying to figure you out.”

McKay’s mouth thinned.  “Don’t try.  I’m beyond you.”

“I’m not just a pretty face, McKay.”

“No, I’ll grant you’re also an excellent pilot.”

John took a step toward McKay, so that the other man had to tip his head back to maintain eye contact.  “So you think my face is pretty.”

Two spots of pink appeared on McKay’s cheeks.  “I didn’t say that.”

“You agreed with the statement.  It’s implied.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” McKay breathed, flushing even more.  “What’s your point?”

John clasped his hands to his nonexistent bosom dramatically.  “I’m just wondering if you’ll try to have your wicked way with me once I’m ensconced in your lair.”

“Ensconced in my – my—” McKay spluttered.  John bit his tongue to keep from laughing.  “What kind of lurid dime novels have you been reading?”

“You have to admit it’s got all the right ingredients,” John persisted.  “Rich, powerful business tycoon, pretty peasant boy down on his luck, a secluded location…”  John waggled his eyebrows like Groucho.

Scowling, McKay pushed past John and strode to the front door.  “I’m sure it’ll be difficult, but I think I'll manage to resist your peasant charms,” he muttered, fumbling with the latch.  

John laughed and came up behind him.  “You really need to lighten up, McKay,” he said as McKay pushed the door open.

“And you really need to – oh my God,” McKay said, racing forward and dropping to his knees.

John opened the door a little wider to reveal a woman crumpled on the carpet a few feet beyond the entrance.  She was so elderly as to be cadaverous, her skin papery and mottled with age spots, her hair wispy and bone-white.

“Oh, my God.”  McKay looked up at John, horror etched on his features.  “It’s Beatrice.”

“Is she—”

But McKay just stared down at her stupidly.  John dropped to his knees on the other side of her and pressed his fingers to her neck.

Nothing.

“She’s dead,” he said flatly.  It was a terrible thing, but at least it looked like she’d lived a long and full life.

“It’s Beatrice,” McKay said again, voice trembling now.  “It’s Beatrice.”

“Yeah,” John agreed gently.  “You said that already.”

“You don’t understand!” McKay snapped.  “This _can’t _be Beatrice.”

John frowned.  “Why not?”

“Because when I left the house this morning, Beatrice was forty-two years old.”

John tried to wrap his head around that.  It refused to wrap.  In fact, he was so stunned by the revelation that he didn’t even notice the three figures approach them until they were standing a few paces away.  He sprang to his feet, but it was too late; the two guys on the end had pistols trained on them.  The middle one was a giant, well over six feet tall.  His face, hands and body were hidden by a huge black cowl.

“Doctor McKay, I presume,” the left hand one said.  He looked and sounded a little like Conrad Veidt.

McKay rose slowly, his face twisted in pure, seething fury.  “Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my house?” he growled.

John’s gut tightened in anticipation of battle, and in anticipation of…something else.  _Okay, just for the record,_ he admonished his libido, _this is a really bad time to be getting excited by McKay’s angry voice._

“Did you do this to Beatrice?” McKay persisted, but there was no answer to that question, either.  Meanwhile, John’s mind was racing.  He didn’t know the layout of the house, so his best escape route was through the front door, still half open and about six feet behind him.  He’d probably make it outside, but would he be able to reach the car before they plugged him?  And even if he did, it was an open top car – not great for avoiding bullets.  And what would happen to McKay if he did?

“Please do not attempt escape,” Conrad said to John, almost lazily.  “It would be very tedious to have to shoot you.”

“You’re gonna shoot me anyway,” John said, matching his lazy tone and raising him a hundred.  “I thought I might save you the big buildup.”

Conrad raised his pistol, and John took a deep breath.  Yep, looked like 1938 was turning out a _lot _shittier than ’32.

“_Wait_.”

McKay and Sheppard both looked up at the sound of that grating, sibilant voice.  _That doesn’t sound human,_ John thought, knowing as he thought it that it was crazy.

“You do not give the orders here,” Conrad told him – it – him.

“_I hunger,_” it – definitely it – said, and John fought the chill creeping up his spine.  Jesus.  

“Well, then,” Conrad said, eyeing John speculatively, “I suppose we should attempt to satisfy your – craving, hm?”  He waved his pistol toward an entranceway off the hall, and John and McKay reluctantly walked toward it.  John cast one last glance at Beatrice’s crumpled form, and wondered if he was going to be wishing for that bullet soon.

  


    
    
    
 

**Chapter Two**  


 

  
“It is most inconvenient that you arrived so early,” Conrad said calmly as he herded them down the hall.  “We were nearly completed our task.”

“I take it since you bastards saw fit to kill a helpless woman that Bates is also dead?” McKay gritted.

This time Conrad did bother to answer.  “If you mean the disagreeable armed _Schwarze_, then yes.  Him we had to shoot.”

“And I suppose you’re the ones who sabotaged my plane,” McKay added.  

“Yes.  Our man assured us that the aircraft – and the pilot—” he shot John a withering glare “—would not survive the crash.  We imagined this would keep you occupied for most of the day.”

“Sorry to be such a disappointment to you fellas,” John drawled.  He winced as a hard object – he’d bet the butt of Conrad’s pistol – made contact with the back of his head.

“Jeez,” he said.  “This is _not _the way to make new friends.”

“Let me guess,” McKay interrupted, forestalling another blow.  “You thought you’d have more time to help yourself to my plans.”

“Yes, but in the end it is good that you have arrived.  It appears we are missing one vital piece of information.”

John was surprised to see McKay smirk.  “You are?” he asked, turning with a sneer.  “I can’t imagine what it might be.”

The little guy who didn’t talk raised his hand to belt McKay across the chops, but Conrad stopped him.  “No.  We have better methods.”

John didn’t like the sound of that at all.

Shorty shoved McKay into the room, which John now saw was a library.  The floor-to-ceiling built in bookshelves were full to overflowing with books and papers, as was the surface of a huge oak desk over by one wall.  John scoped out the room quickly, looking for potential weapons.  He saw two:  a nasty-looking poker over by the fireplace, and a half-hidden glint of metal peeking out from beneath one of the papers that he hoped was a letter opener.  

Judging the moment, he stopped just inside the entrance of the room.  Sure enough, Shorty gave him a push, which he used to his advantage.  Pretending to trip, he stumbled into McKay, shoving him in the direction of the fireplace, then wobbled and came to rest as close to the desk as he dared.  He was pleased to see that McKay was well-positioned to grab the poker when the opportunity presented itself.

And then McKay’s eyes widened, and he strode to the wing chair facing the fireplace.  John suppressed a sigh.  

“Oh, no,” McKay murmured.  “Sumner.”

John couldn’t afford to relinquish his position, though he did twist sideways so he could see the man in the chair.  God, it was Sumner all right, but he’d gone through the same horrible aging process that the housekeeper had suffered.  His hands were trembling and breathing was obviously difficult.  He whispered something to McKay that John couldn’t hear, and McKay’s jaw twitched.

McKay’s hand covered Sumner’s briefly, and then he rose to his feet.  “What in God’s name have you done to him?  What kind of weapon could do this to people?”

“A very powerful and ancient weapon,” Conrad said silkily.  “One we were destined to use by virtue of our superior birth and breeding.”

_Oh, geez, _John thought.  _Here we go again.  Same song, different year._

And then Tall and Scary reached up to remove his cowl.  The first thing John noticed were the hands, now revealed by the movement.   
They were long.  And they had claws.  And they were green.

And then he pushed back the cowl, and holy shit, the rest of him was green, too.

John glanced at McKay, whose wide mouth was hanging open in shock, which John expected.  And then he said something that was, well, unexpected.

“You found it, then.”

Conrad smiled thinly.  “Yes, we found it.”

“Where?”

Conrad hesitated, then shrugged.  “I suppose there is no harm in telling you.  Antarctica.  We have had an expedition working there for well over a year.”

McKay closed his mouth and looked at the guy – thing – whatever – like it was an interesting painting.  “Hm.  I’m ashamed to admit that never occurred to me.”  He raised his chin.  “How did you find him?”

“He was frozen in the ice.  We thought at first he was dead, of course, but the Wraith have…amazing powers of recuperation.”

“Wraith, huh?” John said, nodding.  “Great name.  Suits you.  Of course, I would’ve gone for something a little friendlier, like, say…Steve.”

The Wraith guy hissed at him.  John took a step back, getting him a few more precious inches closer to the letter opener.

Conrad kept his eyes on McKay.  “You know what we want.  I suggest you give it to us.”

McKay pursed his lips.  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Shorty took a step forward, but Conrad just looked bored.   “I do not insult your formidable intelligence, Doctor; please do not insult mine.  Give us the location of the American Stargate.”

McKay rolled his eyes.  “Yes, well, since you’re going to kill all of us anyway, I fail to see the incentive.”

Conrad smiled thinly, and John’s blood ran colder than it had when he’d first seen that thing.  “I offer you the choice between a quick, clean death and a slow, excruciating one.”  He nodded at Steve, who walked toward McKay with slow, measured steps, like Boris Karloff in some B picture.

John risked a glance at the letter opener.  He could reach it, but they were too close together; he didn’t want to take a chance on hitting McKay.  

Steve shoved McKay aside and loomed over Sumner.  Before John could make a choice, the Wraith raised his right hand and slammed it into Sumner’s chest, right over his heart.

Sumner was too weak to scream, but from the way his legs and arms stiffened, John knew he was going through hell.  He tamped down the surge of rage that flowed through him.  Shorty was still watching him like a hawk; the opportunity wasn’t there yet. _ Wait.  Wait.  You’ll get your chance._

“Stop it!” McKay shouted.  “Stop it now!”

The Wraith took his hand away, and Sumner slumped in the chair.  John was surprised when McKay boldly pushed his way past the Wraith and kneeled down in front of Sumner.

“The location, Doctor?”

McKay shook his head fiercely and glared up at Conrad.  “Go to hell.”

_Shit,_ John thought, because this was it, they were going to go for him first to try to get McKay to talk, and he had a split second to make a decision before they were all focused on him.

He made it.  

Grabbing for the letter opener as quickly as he could, John drew his arm back and sent the makeshift weapon flying.  He didn’t think about his aim, because he’d long since learned that he was most accurate when he just threw on instinct.

It was nice to see he hadn’t lost his touch, because the handle of the letter opener looked really good sticking out of Shorty’s throat.

As Shorty made a small, startled sound and crumpled to the floor, John caught the motion of Conrad’s arm and dived behind the desk.  Before he disappeared altogether, though, he saw McKay launch himself at the other man with a roar.  Swiftly changing plans, he popped back up again and raced around the desk, trying to reach Shorty’s gun before anyone else could.

He was almost there when he felt Steve’s hand close around his shoulder and yank him back.  This was _not _turning out to be his year, he thought as the superhuman strength of the guy sent him flying back against the wall.  

He shook his head to clear it – hey, if you hit your head hard enough you really _did _see birds – and looked up just in time to see the Wraith grinning at him with double rows of pointy, rancid teeth.

“Hey, Steve,” John managed, nodding weakly in greeting.  “They got dentists who can fix that now, y’know.”

Evidently, Steve didn’t find that funny, because he hissed again and raised his hand like he’d done before attacking Sumner.  John tested his limbs, but they didn’t seem to want to work for him.  

_This is the way the world ends,_ John thought, oddly calm as the green monster prepared to literally suck the life out of him.

And then he heard a deafening _crack! crack! crack! crack!_ and watched in amazement as Steve jerked like a marionette in the hands of a toddler.  

Steve staggered back drunkenly, then fell to his knees.  McKay, hands shaking as he held Conrad’s broomhandle Mauser in both hands, emptied six more rounds into the Wraith’s chest.  Steve let out a gust of air and nose dived into the carpet.

“That ought to kill you, you son of a bitch,” McKay breathed.  

John couldn’t do much but smile, but that seemed to be enough for McKay, because his red, sweating face broke into a matching grin.  “You're all right.”

Managing a nod, John winced as some of the feeling began to return to his extremities.  “Just tell me this isn’t one of the perks, ‘cause if it is I quit.”

McKay actually laughed at that.  He reached a hand down and seized one of John’s in a firm grip.  “Come on,” he said, hauling him to his feet.  John gritted his teeth and fought the scream that tried to escape from his throat.  Shit, his head was going to be murder in the morning.

“How’s Conrad?” John murmured.

“Who?”  John pointed with his chin.  “Oh.  He’s out, I think, but I’d better tie him up.”

John looked down at the remains of what used to be the Wraith.  “I don’t want to sound too nosy, but what the _fuck _was that?”

“Hm?” McKay asked, distracted as he hunted through his desk.  “I’m not sure exactly.  I assume it’s some kind of extraterrestrial being.”

John stared at him.  “You say that as if it were perfectly normal.”

Triumphant, McKay held up a length of rope.  “Well, to tell you the truth I _am _surprised I took it as well as I did.  I’m not especially fond of change.”

John raised an eyebrow.  “You do realize you have a hell of a lot of explaining to do.”

McKay only grunted from his spot on the floor beside Conrad, where he was currently trussing him up like a prize steer at a rodeo.

“Sheppard…”

John’s head snapped up at the thready whisper.  

“Sheppard.”

Jesus.  It was Sumner.  

“I’m here, Colonel,” John said, squatting down in front of the ruins of his former commander.

“It…is you.”

“Yeah, it’s me,” John said.   “Long time no see, huh?”  He forced himself to meet Sumner’s gaze.  “Save your strength, okay?  As soon as we’ve got these characters under control, we’ll get you to a hospital—”

Sumner shook his head.  “No.  Too…late.”

“You’re gonna be okay,” John persisted.  

“Lieutenant,” Sumner rasped.  “Asking…you.  Can’t…myself.”

God.  John sprang to his feet; when he looked around, the library faded, to be replaced by the blasted landscape of Flanders.  Fuck, he’d spent twenty years running from that place, but try as he might he kept ending up there over and over again.

“Sheppard,” Sumner whispered, his sunken eyes watering.  “Please.”

_One more duty_, John told himself, stiff legs carrying him toward Shorty’s broken body.  _You can handle one more duty.  _

The gun was a .32, a small Browning whose streamlined grace belied its deadly function.  Trying to clear his mind of everything that mattered and failing miserably, John walked over to the wing chair, placed the barrel against Sumner’s left temple, and pulled the trigger.

“God!” McKay exclaimed, jumping up and staring at John.  

John thumbed the safety and flung the pistol on the carpet, then turned away and threw up.

He had no idea how much time had passed before he felt McKay’s gentle hand on his shoulder.  Still shaking, he looked up into the other man’s grim, drawn face.

“I know this is a rotten time to ask,” McKay said, “but do you think you could fly me to Nevada?”

  


    
    
    
 

**Chapter Three **

 

McKay ran around the house like a demented squirrel for almost an hour, taking armfuls of papers and drawings and books and, with John’s help, forming them into a huge pile outside.

And then he emptied a can of gasoline over it and set the whole thing on fire.

“I don’t mean to state the obvious here,” John observed, “but isn’t this something the other guys do?”

McKay grimaced as he watched the flames leap higher.  “I wish I could keep them, believe me, but we can’t take them with us, and I can’t afford to let them fall into the wrong hands.”  He tapped his skull.  “The important stuff is all up here anyway.”

“You think there are more of them coming?”

“It’s a distinct possibility,” McKay admitted.  “We have to get out of here as quickly as we can.”

John said nothing, his thoughts roiling like the black smoke rising from the fire.  After a moment, he heard McKay gasp and looked over at him.

“What’s the matter?”

McKay gaped at him.  “I’m an idiot.”

John smiled.  “Not the last time I checked.”

“No, honestly, I’m an idiot.  There’s no earthly reason why you should want to come with me.”  He paused.  “Well, of course I’ll pay you handsomely, but I don’t know if that will be sufficient to make up for the definite risk of messy death and arrest.”

“I think if I’m dead, the arrest won’t matter so much.”

McKay blinked.  “Are you trying to be funny?”

“Noooo,” John breathed.  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“My point is,” McKay continued, “you can leave anytime.  No one will be looking for you.”  He waved a hand in the direction of the garage.  “Take one of the cars.  I’ll be happy to sign it over to you.”

John went back to his contemplation of the fire.  He was a little amazed that the option of leaving McKay in the lurch hadn’t even occurred to him.  “Can you fly?”

McKay’s jaw clenched.  “No.”

“Is it safe for you to drive?”

“Possibly.”

John looked at him.  “What does ‘possibly’ mean?”

“You don’t know what—”

“Don’t start that again.”

McKay rounded on him, his voice becoming increasingly agitated as he spoke.  “It means probably not.  The police will doubtless want me for questioning when they find an unconscious Nazi fifth columnist and five dead bodies, including a _space alien_, on my property.  I anticipate that will be hard to explain, which means I may be arrested.  Once they have me in custody, it’s going to be painfully easy for the _bad people_ to find me!”

“Christ, McKay,” John said, chuckling, “a simple ‘no’ would’ve been easier to say.”

He could practically hear McKay’s teeth grinding.  “Don’t worry,” John murmured.  “I’ll take you where you need to go.”

“I’ll pay you—”

“Forget it,” John interrupted, the image of Sumner’s pleading face rising before his eyes again and making his stomach turn over.  The thought that McKay might meet the same fate through some action – or inaction – of his was simply unacceptable.  “You keep me in flapjacks for now and we’ll worry about the rest when we get to Nevada.”

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
John wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.

“This is a jet,” he said wonderingly, hand reaching out automatically to caress the darkly painted skin of the plane that McKay was currently fueling.

“That’s correct,” McKay said.  John could hear the smile in his voice.

“This is a real jet,” John repeated.  

“Mm-hm.”

John spun to face him.  “There _are _no real jets, McKay.  Last I heard they were still working on a prototype in England.”

McKay smirked.  “Let’s just say I’m ahead of my time.”

John stepped back to get a good look at the plane.  The single jet engine emerged out the back of the fuselage, and the tail was high and graceful.  The fuselage was elliptical, the sides tapering into the wing surfaces.  And the wings themselves were even more bizarre: they were an astonishing triangular shape, sweeping back from the nose at a dangerous angle and ending in near points at the ends.  

“It looks like something out of _Things to Come,_” John marveled.  

“That movie was claptrap,” McKay said dismissively.  

“I liked that movie,” John shot back.  “And Raymond Massey is Canadian.”  McKay snorted.  “I’ve never seen wings that shape on a real plane.”

McKay puffed himself up.  “I call it an alpha wing.”

John stared at him.  

“Because it’s shaped like…a…never mind,” McKay finished sourly.  

“Listen,” John said uneasily, “I know this is stating the obvious again, but I’ve never flown a jet before.”

McKay climbed the steps leading up to the cockpit and peered at the fuel gauge.  “Yes, well, don’t feel badly.  No one’s flown a jet before.”

John threw up his hands.  “That’s supposed to make me feel better?  To know that this bird is completely untested?”

“She’ll fly,” McKay said confidently.  His gaze dipped.  “At least, I think she will.”

John rolled his eyes.  “What’s her range?”

McKay’s mouth thinned.  “I’m hoping she’ll make it to Chicago.”

“What do you mean, hoping?” John demanded.

“That’s pretty much the extent of her range without drop tanks.”

“Where are the drop tanks, then?  Let’s stick a couple on her.”

McKay fidgeted.  “I haven’t built them yet.”

John sighed.  “So what’s in Chicago?”

“A friend.”  McKay stared into the cockpit for another moment, then ran down the steps and turned off the fuel pump.  “We can’t exactly land this on any old airstrip.”

“No, I don’t suppose we can.  What’s the plan?”

McKay coiled the fuel line neatly and closed the tank, then ran around to the far side of the plane.  “I’m still working on it.  I think we’ll have to leave the plane in Chicago.  It should be safe there until the – until it can be picked up.”

“Picked up?  By who? The same guys you were calling earlier?”  When he’d been hauling out the bundles of papers earlier, he’d noticed McKay talking earnestly on the phone to someone, but he’d stopped short at eavesdropping.  Now, though, he kind of regretted not being nosy, because he realized he was going to have to fight for every bit of information he got out of McKay.  “Are they the same guys we’re going to Nevada to see?”

McKay didn’t even deign to answer, and that pissed John off.  Sure, he was going to get paid for this, but he was still risking his neck, and he wasn’t really doing it for the money anyway.  He didn’t exactly know what he was doing it for, but he was sure he’d figure it out soon.  

Filled with righteous indignation, he strode around the nose of the plane, intending to give McKay a piece of his mind.

And stopped dead when he saw Steve advancing on a cornered McKay.  

Quickly he stepped back, looking around wildly for a weapon – any weapon.  He still had Shorty’s pistol, but that obviously wasn’t going to be enough.  

He found it: over by the wall there were several lengths of iron rebar.  Quietly, he hefted one about three feet long and ran back to the other side of the plane.

McKay was on his knees now, one of Steve’s fingernails trailing along the side of his face in a grotesque imitation of a caress.  His eyes were wide but defiant, his wide mouth set in a hard line.

“_Where…is it?_”

With what looked like a great effort, McKay moved his head left, then right.  John crept closer, trying to make as little noise as possible.  Just three more steps and he could take a good swing—

McKay’s eyes flicked to John, then widened for a split second.

_Shit,_ John thought.  _You should never play poker, McKay._

Steve whirled around, spied John and let loose a scream that sounded like a thousand people dying at once.

John closed the distance and swung at Steve’s head with everything he had.  He wasn’t really surprised when a strong hand blocked his swing, but he was a little disappointed.  

“Puny Human,” Steve grated, “will you ever learn?”

“Who’re you calling puny?” John shot back.  The Wraith grinned and flung the pipe aside, where it clattered to the ground.  Then he grabbed John by the throat and slammed him against the side of the plane.

“Okay,” John croaked.  “Maybe I could take a few more vitamins.”

The Wraith hissed at him and pressed harder.  John saw black spots dancing before his eyes and thought, _now would be a good time for Errol Flynn to show up._

Just as the darkness was closing in for good, John heard a dull thud.  The hand around his throat disappeared and he dropped to the ground, gasping.

Pushing himself to his hands and knees, he looked up to see a flushed and panting McKay standing over Steve’s unmoving body, the rebar clenched in his fists.  

“Finish him,” John rasped.  

McKay blinked at him, then at the Wraith.  “But he’s—”  McKay began.

John shook his head; it was clear by now that a little thing like a fractured skull wasn’t enough to stop this thing permanently.  Too tired and too sore to explain, he hauled himself to his feet and grabbed the bar from McKay’s unresisting grasp, then plunged it into Steve’s chest in the place where he hoped the monster’s heart would be.  Bile-colored blood welled up out of the hole while the Wraith wriggled like a bug stuck on a pin.

“That _has _to kill you,” John gritted, twisting the bar for good measure.

Steve’s eyes flew open and fixed glassily on John.  “_We…will…not be stopped.  My children will come.  And…they…will…feast._”

He twitched convulsively one more time, and then the last breath rattled in his chest and his head lolled to the side, the eyes still open and staring.

John spent a few seconds listening to his blood rushing through his ears.  “He’s got _kids_?”

McKay’s eyes were wide.  “They must have found more than one in Antarctica,” he said dully.  “A male and a female, at least.”

John whistled through his teeth.  “And they’ve bred them.  Christ.”

It gives a whole new meaning to the term ‘master race’, doesn’t it?” he said.  “The ultimate terror weapon, worse than a flight of Stukas strafing a line of escaping refugees.”  He looked down at the Wraith, now finally still.  “God help us.”

“Speaking of that,” John said, “why didn’t you call for help earlier?”

McKay raised his gaze to meet John’s, and for once his expression was unreadable.  “It wasn’t your fight,” he said.  “I wanted to give you the chance to get away if you wanted.”

“Jesus, McKay,” John breathed, stunned and humbled.  He’d seen guys trained for war demonstrate a lot less courage than McKay had just shown him.  

“Listen,” John said after a moment, unsure of what he was going to say until he opened his mouth.  “From here on in we’re in this together, all right?”  

McKay’s head jerked up and he stared at him, astonishment evident in his expression, and John added,  “So no more of this silent suffering, okay?  You need help, you holler.”

A small smile tugged at McKay’s generous mouth.  “I’m good at hollering.”

“Okay, then,” John said, holding his gaze for a couple of seconds longer than was absolutely necessary.  He only looked away when McKay’s eyes revealed something he was no longer familiar with – something painfully like admiration.

It had been far too long since he’d been anyone’s hero; some days he was sure he never had been.  He wasn’t sure he wanted to try again now, but it seemed that some long-buried part of him clearly did.  

He just hoped it knew what it was doing.

  


    
    
    
 

**Chapter Four**

 

After hacking a couple of fingers off the Wraith with a carving knife and wrapping them in wax paper and oilcloth, McKay got John to help him drag the body out to the fire, where he poured more gasoline on it to help it burn.

John must have been looking at him funny, because McKay looked self-conscious and said, “I think it would be best if we kept this quiet for now.  We don’t want to panic anyone.”

“You don’t think finding two bodies with hand-shaped holes in their chests will panic people?” John asked, incredulous.

McKay made a face.  “Well.  This way it will stay a mystery.  For now.”

“You’re awful big on mystery, aren’t you?”  He paused, debating with himself.  “What’s the Stargate?”

McKay set his jaw.  “I can’t tell you that yet.”

“For God’s sake, McKay,” John exclaimed.  “I’m not a Nazi!”

“I didn’t say you were.  But until we’re safe, the less you know about the Stargate, the better.  Believe me, it’s better for you that way.”

John snorted.  “In case you hadn’t noticed, I knew even less a couple of hours ago than I do now, and the nice men were still going to kill me.”

McKay pursed his lips.  “You have a point.”  He rubbed at his forehead.  “Look, it’s a little…complicated.  Can we just get out of here first, on the understanding that I’ll tell you whatever I can as soon as we’re out of immediate danger?”

“Fair enough,” John said.  He caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned toward McKay’s long gravel driveway.  

“Uh, McKay?  You know what you said about immediate danger?”

“Yes?”

“I think it just found us,” he said, pointing to the police car slowly wending its way up the road.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
“Go, go, go!”

“Going, going, going!” McKay called back from the other side of the plane.  Thank God the hangar was hidden by the hill; the cop car had stopped outside the house, and John assumed that by now the police were making their first gruesome discovery by the front door.

It was well past five now; unless this thing flew like a son of a bitch, he was probably going to be flying into the worst of the setting sun.  

“You got any cheaters?” John panted as he shoved the plane forward.  A few more feet and they’d be clear of the hangar.

“No.”

“Too bad,” John muttered.  “All right, we’re clear.  Get in.”

“Oh, God,” McKay breathed.

“What?”

McKay patted his back pocket, then dug out his wallet.  “I forgot to get the money from the safe.”  He peered inside the wallet.  “I have fifty dollars American.  That’s it.”

“That should be enough to get us to Nevada, if your friend helps us.”

“But—”

“McKay,” John gritted, “get in the plane.”

“Right.  Getting in.”  McKay scrambled up onto the wing and climbed into the rear cockpit.  He held up a finger as John stuck his right leg in the front cockpit.  “I should probably tell you I really, really hate to fly.”

“Wonderful,” John sighed, taking a split second to absorb the irony.  “I’ll try to make it as pleasant as possible.”  He reached up and brought the hinged canopy down carefully, snugging the latches tight in the front while McKay did the same in the back.  The rubber seal fit into its channel perfectly.

“Okay,” John said, reviewing the instrument panel again.  Thank God it was similar to the layout of a prop plane.  There were a couple of dials he was unfamiliar with; he’d have to ask McKay about those once they were in the air, because he didn’t have time for a lesson now.  Hopefully they weren’t essential for getting the damned thing off the ground.

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t mean to rush you,” McKay said casually, “but I think the police are about to notice us.”

John looked out through the canopy.  Sure enough, there were a couple of heads poking up over the hill.  He could tell when they’d seen the plane, because they started waving their arms and running.

“Start the plane, please.”

“Sure,” John said, sending up an extremely brief prayer before reaching for the ignition switch.  “Here goes.”

He flipped the small switch.  There was a loud _bang _from the starter and the engine roared to life.

The cops were running full out now.  One of them was reaching into his jacket.

_Focus, _John reminded himself, concentrating on doing his preflight as thoroughly as he could considering he had about five seconds to do it in.

“John—”

“Hold your horses!”  Oil pressure, temperature, check flaps, check, fucking check…

“John!”  The shout was accompanied by a loud _crack!_  “That was a bullet!”

“Did it hit anything important?” John shouted, nosing the plane forward.

“I don’t know!”

“Guess we’ll find out soon enough,” John murmured, easing the throttle forward.

It was only about twenty yards to the turn for the runway, but it was easily the longest twenty yards of John’s life.  He took it as quickly as he could, then turned abruptly using the rudder pedal.

“Uh, McKay.”

“What?  What?”

“That’s a really short runway.”  Jeez, he’d seen strips up on plateaus in the Rockies that were longer.  He was supposed to take off in that?

“Just rev it up to maximum thrust and she’ll take off for you in that distance,” McKay said hastily.

“Theoretically,” John pointed out.  “After all, this thing’s never left the ground before.”

“They’re almost here!” McKay yelled, voice on the edge of hysteria.  “Please!  Do it!  Now!”

Taking a deep breath, John jammed the brake down and pushed the throttle all the way to the firewall.  The engine screamed under his legs.

_Now,_ John thought, releasing the brake and feeling the jet’s power slam him back into his seat as it shot them forward.

And then John did a little screaming of his own, because _Judas Priest_ this was the best ride ever.

“Oh my God!”  McKay yelled at him as they raced down the runway.  “Are you shot?  Are you dying?”

“I’m fine!”  John yelled back.  “I’m fucking _fantastic_!”  He pulled back on the stick and the bird lifted effortlessly into the air like she was made of paper.  

He was at thirty-five hundred feet before he even noticed how high he’d gotten.  Jesus, just how fast was this thing going?  He leveled off and swung her easily to the west-southwest, then checked the velocity.

“Holy smokes,” John breathed.  They were traveling at nearly five hundred miles an hour.

Five hundred miles.  An hour.  At this rate, they’d land in Chicago inside of an hour and a quarter.

John grabbed the leather helmet he hadn’t had the time to put on earlier.  He put it on, strapped the throat mike around his neck, and spoke.  “How’s it going, McKay?”

Over the connection, he heard McKay breathing heavily.  “You okay back there?” John asked, concerned.

“I’ll survive,” McKay panted after a moment.  “Just hyperventilating a little.  Don’t mind me.”

“Hey,” John said wonderingly.

“Hey – what?”

“We are the fastest two people alive.”

There was a pause.  “You know, while I appreciate your enthusiasm, I do wish you hadn’t said that.”

“Thanks,” John said simply.

“You’re thanking me?” McKay said, surprise evident in his voice.

“Yeah.  I’m the first person ever to fly a jet.  That’s amazing enough to deserve a thank you.”

“Oh.  Well.  You’re welcome, then.”  McKay’s voice was warmer now, wrapping around John like a familiar blanket.

Shaking the fanciful thought away after a moment, he said, “So what’s your estimate of the range on this, anyway?  Ballpark figure.”

McKay hesitated.  “I think about five hundred miles.  Give or take.”

John paused.  “It’s five hundred miles to Chicago, McKay,” John said.

“Yes,” McKay agreed.  “That’s why I’d advise you fly in a straight line.”

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
The sun was lowering in the sky when they reached Chicago, but since they were traveling west it was still high enough not to be a nuisance.  McKay advised John to swing north along the edge of the lake and to stay high enough to be unnoticed as anything but a fast-moving plane.  Only the sharpest eye would be able to notice it was traveling at close to twice the speed of an average aircraft.

He’d been keeping an eye on the fuel gauge pretty much constantly for the last half hour, watching it steadily drop toward the red line.  Another glance killed what was left of his euphoria instantly.

“McKay?”

“Hm?”

“I figure we’ve got about five minutes of fuel left.  How close are we?”

“Close,” McKay assured him.  “Bear left a little.”

John did as he was told and began his descent.  The city was giving way to forest here; he scanned the ground, looking for something resembling a landing strip.

And then he saw it, in the same instant that McKay shouted, “There!”  

There was a small clearing among the trees; John could make out a house, a couple of large outbuildings and a grass strip that didn’t look well-used.  

“It’s not ideal, but you should be able to land,” McKay said.  

“That’s another really small strip, McKay,” John pointed out.

“It’s used mainly for autogyros,” McKay said, his voice at least sounding apologetic.  “I think you should have enough room.”

“I’m glad you think so,” John muttered, working the landing gear lever back and forth and turning the jet for its final approach.  There was no time to argue, and no time to find an alternate location.  If he didn’t get this thing down soon, he’d be flying another dead bird, and something told him McKay’s ‘alpha wing’ wouldn’t work too well as a glider.

He tried to use as much of the strip as he could, but it was tough to manage and still avoid flying into the trees at the near edge of the clearing.  As it was, the jet exhaust probably singed the tops of a couple of pines on the way by.  

“Oh, dear,” McKay said as John trimmed her nose up and eased her back to earth.  As soon as the wheels touched, John throttled way back and slammed on the brake; the bird screamed at the rough treatment, but she slowed obediently, shuddering to a stop only a handful of feet in front of the small outbuilding at the end of the strip.

“Okay,” John said.  “So how was that?”

McKay’s response was to scrabble at the canopy frantically.  John unlatched his end obligingly; McKay flung the canopy aside, stood up and proceeded to vomit all over the wing.

“That’s going to leave a stain,” John observed.

“Shut up,” McKay said weakly after a moment.  

John shrugged.  “You’re the boss.”  He finished securing the plane, then climbed out of the cockpit.  McKay was on the ground by now, talking with a small, bespectacled man; he assumed this was the friend McKay had mentioned back in Toronto.

As he approached the pair, the other man looked up at John as though surprised to see him.  There was a momentary flicker of something in his eyes, but it was gone too quickly for John to see what it was.  

“Oh.  Yes.  Radek, this is John Sheppard.  John, Doctor Radek Zelenka.”

John extended his hand, which Zelenka shook briefly.  “Doctor.”

“It is most extraordinary, the design,” Zelenka said, nodding at the plane.  “You have every reason to be proud.”

_Well, it could do with a good hosing down,_ John was tempted to say.

“Are you sure you can keep it for me?” McKay asked.  “I called the team and they should be able to make it here the day after tomorrow.  Someone will fly it to the SGC then.”

John’s ears perked up at the mentions of “team” and “SGC”.  He filed the terms away in his brain for later, determined to eventually piece this together with or without McKay’s help.

Zelenka nodded.  “Of course, my old friend, of course.  We are all working together now, no?”

John was surprised to see McKay shift nervously at that.  “As soon as I get there, I’m going to talk to Hammond again about your clearance,” he said apologetically.  “It’s ridiculous that they haven’t given you full access yet.”

Zelenka shrugged in a distinctly European fashion as he began to guide them up toward the house.  “I can understand.  Things are not as they seem in my country any longer.  The German agents are infiltrating our political system, our organizations.  I fear that soon they will invade.”

John frowned.  “The rest of the world won’t stand for that.”

Zelenka gave him a look that politely told him he was an idiot.  “And what part of the world will risk the lives of its young men again for this, for anything?” he asked gently.  “They will say the price is too high, and perhaps they are right.”

John opened his mouth, then shut it again when it hit him that he would’ve agreed with that statement a few hours ago.

As he trudged up the slope toward the main house, John wondered when his life was going to start looking familiar again.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
Zelenka fed them a delicious meal of baked fish and pan-fried potatoes and some kind of vegetable John thought was probably asparagus but didn’t want to ask about because he didn’t want to look like a yokel.  Instead, he just wolfed it down like the rest of it and made appreciative noises at the right time.

Zelenka and McKay didn’t make much effort to include him in the conversation, which was fine with him because first off, he was too busy eating and second, it gave him a chance to pick up as much as he could about the mystery that was his boss.  Within fifteen minutes he’d learned that McKay was allergic to lemons, hated Brahms, and liked to complain about the “idiots” he knew in the aviation industry.  He learned things about Zelenka, too:  he was Czechoslovakian, and a physicist, and he seemed to have known McKay for years.  They talked about old friends in England at some point, so John figured they’d met at university over there.  

When McKay’s questions turned to Zelenka’s family back home, though, John noticed a subtle but distinct change in the demeanor of the physicist.  Sure, he answered pleasantly enough, but John observed that he rarely met McKay’s eyes while he was talking about them.  Like everything else he’d seen today, he tucked it away in a corner of his brain for later.

After supper Zelenka insisted they stay and get some rest before moving on; he was going to give them the autogyro, which was fueled and ready to go and would take them as far as St. Louis.  After that, the SGC would have another plane waiting for them.  

“What kind of plane?” John asked.

“I do not know,” Zelenka said, reaching for a cigarette.  He offered one to John, who shook his head politely; apparently he knew Rodney’s preferences well enough not to even bother offering one to him.  “The organization is very much like –  cells, yes?  Each member only knows so much as he needs to know.”  He smiled.  “Unless you are Rodney, and then you know all the secrets of the Sphinx.”

John didn’t know if it was the smile or the tone, but something in the way Zelenka said that made his spine tingle unpleasantly.  Rodney’s head snapped up, and John wondered if he’d noticed it too.  “Yes, I’m one of the few people not actually living there who knows the location of the Stargate,” Rodney said.  “Unfortunately, it seems as though that knowledge is helping to paint a rather impressive target on the seat of my pants.  I wouldn’t wish it on you, my friend.”

Zelenka nodded solemnly, almost sadly, John thought.  “I would not wish you to come to harm, either.”

Rodney smiled and stood.  “I hate to be such a poor guest, but I’m worn to the bone, and we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.  Would you mind—”  He pointed upwards.

“No, no, of course not,” Zelenka insisted.  “Please.  Rodney, you know where your room is.  The room on the right has been prepared for Mr. Sheppard.”

“Thanks,” John said, meaning it.  He’d had his first really good meal in weeks, and now he was looking forward to a good night’s rest in a comfortable bed.  Despite his fatigue, he figured he’d have a hard time getting to sleep after all the excitement of the day, but he dropped off pretty much the instant his head hit the pillow.

He was awakened by a hand shaking his shoulder.  Blinking, he noticed sleepily that there was red light seeping in through the window.  Jesus, he knew McKay was keen to get to Nevada, but did he have to get started at the crack of dawn?  

John yawned and stretched.  “Aw Mom, can’t I sleep in a little while longer?”

“Keep your voice down,” McKay whispered.  “Zelenka is right downstairs.”

That brought John fully awake.  He glanced at the bedside clock and saw that it was just after eight.  Then that was sunset outside, not sunrise.  “What’s going on?”

McKay’s mouth was set in a thin, grim line.  “I snuck out a little while ago and checked on the gyro.  It’s not fueled.”

“So maybe he made a mistake.”

McKay shook his head firmly.  “Radek doesn’t make mistakes like that.  He doesn’t intend for us to get away.”

John pushed himself to a sitting position.  “Wait a minute.  I thought he was your friend.”

“He’s one of my oldest friends, yes.  I can’t put my finger on it, but I know there’s something wrong.  He’s not himself.”

“His family,” John said.  At McKay’s puzzled look, he added, “Something in the way he talked about his family seemed – off.”

“Yes, I noticed that,” McKay mused.  “He usually loves talking about them, but tonight—” Rodney trailed off.  “Look, can we talk about this later, when we’re far away from here?”

“And how do you propose to get far away from here?” John asked, swinging his legs over the bed and standing to retrieve his trousers.  “If there are Nazis after us, we’re not going to have much luck traveling on foot.  Not with fifty bucks between us.”

“Oh, my God,” McKay breathed.  

“What?”

McKay’s eyes were wide with horror.  “I never thought.  The jet.  I can’t let them get their hands on it.”

John finished buttoning his pants and looked at him.  “_We_ can’t let them get their hands on it.”

McKay met his gaze, his expression a mixture of shock and a couple of things John didn’t want to recognize.  

“I am sorry, my old friend.”

John sighed.  He didn’t have to turn around to know that Zelenka had a gun trained on them; he could read it written like newspaper headlines across McKay’s face.

“Great,” John muttered, raising his hands.  “My day just got worse.”

    
    
    
 

  


 

**Chapter Five**

John could tell that Zelenka was scared as hell, and that he’d probably never even held a gun, let alone fired one.  Still, he didn’t want to take any chances on testing the scientist’s willingness to try new things.  Not until McKay had had a chance to work on him, to use their longstanding friendship to work on Zelenka’s guilt.

“What the _hell _do you think you’re doing?”

John hung his head.  Maybe letting McKay work on him wasn’t the answer.

Zelenka ushered them into the parlor and waved the small revolver at them.  “I am sorry.  I have no choice.”

“Of _course _you have a choice!” McKay ranted, leaning forward in his seat.  “You can hold that gun on us or you can let us go!  There’s the choice!”

Zelenka shook his head sadly.  “I cannot let you go.  They already know you are here, and they are coming.”

“Because you told them, you son of a bitch!  I can’t _believe _I talked Hammond into letting you in on the project.”

John took a deep breath, let it out, then made his decision.  What the hell; it wasn’t like McKay’s strategy – or lack thereof – was getting them anywhere.  As soon as McKay stopped spluttering, he murmured, “You really think they’re going to let your family go if you hand them McKay on a silver platter?”

Zelenka looked at him, his face stricken.  _Bingo_.  “When you are desperate, you believe many things that may be lies,” he said solemnly.

_Don’t I know it,_ John thought.  “How do you know they aren’t already dead?”

Zelenka flinched, the gun twitching in his hand; John really wished he wouldn’t do that when it was pointed at him.  “I do not.”

“Then you’re sacrificing McKay for nothing.  Worse, you might be helping them to do this to a whole lot of other people.”

Zelenka held his gaze.  “My sister has two young sons.  She is expecting another child.”

John nodded.  “What would she want you to do?”

He watched Zelenka breathe for a few endless centuries while he prayed McKay would keep his mouth shut.  Luckily, silence reigned until Zelenka finally spoke again.

“Go,” he murmured, voice so low that John could barely hear him.  The gun lowered along with Zelenka’s gaze.  “Go,” he said again, more loudly.  

John leapt to his feet as McKay did the same.  “Come with us,” John urged.

Zelenka shook his head.  “I must be here when they arrive.”

John hesitated.  “You got any idea how much time we have?”

Zelenka raised his head.  “You will not have to worry about them.  But more will come.  They are spreading over this country as they did in mine.  Like a cancer.”

“Radek…” McKay began just as they reached the door.  Zelenka turned to look at him.

“You will find what you need to destroy the plane in the hangar,” Zelenka said quietly.  “Hurry.”

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
It turned out that a marvel of engineering that had probably taken McKay years to develop and build could be blown to hell in a matter of seconds with two barrels of avgas – one poured over the frame of the jet and the other set under the fuselage.  John had offered to light the wick when McKay hesitated, but in the end he’d set his jaw, shaken his head and held his Zippo to the length of cotton.

And then they’d run like hell and hadn’t looked back.  John remembered the lay of the land from the air, and now they were headed west, away from the main road and deeper into the woods.  There’d been an area that looked like farmland a couple of miles away – John was hoping to find a kind farmer who was planning to drive into Chicago in the morning so they could hitch a ride on a truck or a train going their way.  

They found what they were looking for at the third farm, where a grizzled old coot with tobacco-stained teeth looked them up and down, told them they could come with him if they helped him milk the cows in the morning, and offered them a bed in the barn.

When John swung the barn door open, McKay let loose a gigantic sneeze.  

Then he sneezed again.  

And again.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“I have h-h-hay fever,” McKay gusted; the end of ‘hay’ came out as another sneeze.

“Great,” John muttered.  “Come on, we can park ourselves out in the field.”

“Which is covered in cow shit,” McKay pointed out.  

“Right.  Barn it is, then.”

McKay sneezed again.  

They settled up in the loft, where John dug out his bedroll from his pack.  He spread the blanket over the hay and gestured at it with a flourish.

“Your bedchamber awaits, master.”

McKay rolled his eyes, but dropped onto the blanket nevertheless.  “I wish I were in Hell with my back broken.”   He rolled over and winced.  "Oh, right, I forgot.  I already am."

“Get some sleep,” John said quietly.

McKay looked up at him, then wiggled over to one side of the blanket and lay down again.

John hesitated for a moment, gaze searching the loft for another blanket.  When he looked at McKay again, McKay’s eyes were shut and his mouth was hanging open slightly.  His nose twitched a couple of times, but no more sneezes emerged.

Right.  McKay obviously trusted John not to molest him in his sleep, and his trust was well-founded.  Even if John thought the man had one of the nicer asses he’d ever seen, there was no way in hell he was going down that route.  McKay was a good guy underneath the brusque manner and ridiculous allergies, brilliant and talented and surprisingly gutsy, but he’d already made John’s life complicated enough.  Something told him that a romantic relationship with McKay – even if the man were inclined that way –  would be fraught with unexpected complications.  Christ, he only _worked _for the guy and look what had happened already.

Pushing his thoughts aside, he flopped onto the blanket beside a now lightly snoring McKay.  Before he blew out the lantern, he pushed himself up on one elbow and murmured, “Good night, milord.”

The lord of the manor snuffled loudly and rolled over onto his side, his ass facing John.

John sent up a silent prayer for strength and did likewise.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
They reached Chicago by seven, having been up at five to milk the cows.  Things went more slowly than they would have liked due to the fact that John had ended up having to do about ninety percent of the work.

McKay was still sore about that, which John thought was pretty ironic considering he hadn’t really earned the right to _be _sore.  Somehow it offended his dignity to discover he was hopeless at something a million other people knew how to do.

And of course, it didn’t help that the farmer had laughed himself sick at McKay’s attempts to grab onto the cow’s teats, following up with rude conclusions about McKay’s experience with women – or lack thereof.  John debated telling the old coot he’d had a fifty-fifty chance to pick the queer and blown it.   But then again, they needed that ride into town.

After the farmer dropped them off it was a short El ride to what John figured to be a likely spot – a diner near the Sears-Roebuck warehouses.  The place was full of truckers who were wolfing down a quick breakfast before hitting the road with their cargo destined for the homes of middle America, and John watched them carefully to figure out a likely candidate.

He found him after about twenty minutes and Rodney’s third donut.  The man was fiftyish, balding, and smoked Lucky Strikes like they were going to pass a law against them tomorrow.  When John stood up and walked toward him, his beady eyes fixed on him and didn’t let up until John was sitting right across from him.

“What can I do for you, Mac?” the guy asked, dark brown gaze sweeping up and down John’s body like a lascivious hand.

“Just checkin’ to see where you were headed,” John answered.

“Kansas City,” the guy said, his eyes narrowing even more.  “But we’re not supposed to take on passengers.”

Kansas City.  John thought about it for a moment or two, then decided it was worth it.  He leaned forward on the table and said in a low voice, “Are you sure you can’t make any exceptions?”

The trucker's gaze pawed at him again, leaving a chill in its wake.  Summoning all of his strength, John nodded toward the bathroom.  

On the way there, he risked a glance at McKay, but the other man was still happily guzzling coffee.  Once in the bathroom, he picked the stall furthest from the door and waited.  Not that he really needed the furthest one; he’d long since learned how to keep quiet.  But there was no telling if his new friend was a moaner.

Within about a minute, John heard the creak of the door opening.  He took a deep breath to calm his suddenly racing pulse.  _C’mon,_ he thought, _you can handle a little blow job.  It’s not like you’ve never done this before. _ It wasn’t even the first time he’d done it for a favor or a night in a warm bed or, God help him, even a meal.  But it had been a few years since he’d been that desperate.

There wasn’t anything else to be done, though.  McKay’s fifty bucks wouldn’t get both of them all the way to Nevada, and they didn’t have the time to be messing around trying to make money the hard way.

The door of the stall swung open and suddenly there was a hundred and eighty pounds of sweaty trucker pressed up against him.  John felt his stomach roil.

“Thought you’d already be on your knees,” the guy rasped, stale cigarette-scented breath wafting across John’s face.

John raised an eyebrow.  “I really don’t want to be spending any more time on that floor than I have to.”

The guy’s meaty hand landed on John’s shoulder, pressing down, forcing him to earth.

_Yesterday you flew a jet,_ John thought.  His gut twisted again as he began to sink under the weight.

And then he heard the high-pitched squeak of the bathroom door hinge, followed swiftly by hurried footsteps and a sharp, caffeine-fueled rap on the door of the stall.

“It’s occupied,” the trucker snapped.

“Yes, I know it’s occupied,” came the huffy reply.  “That’s why I knocked.”  

John hung his head.  _Shit_.

“Perhaps you can help me,” McKay continued.  “You see, my traveling companion walked in here a moment ago, and he hasn’t come out.  Since he isn’t anywhere else, I’m assuming you have him trapped in there against his will.  I’d appreciate it if you let him out.”  John could hear the high-handed tone in McKay’s voice masking the fear; he would’ve been touched by McKay’s show of bravery if it wasn’t so goddamned ill-timed.

The small part of him that wanted to rip open the door and kiss him was ruthlessly beaten down.

“McKay,” John called out.  “I’m fine.”

There was a pause in which John could practically hear McKay’s jaw dropping open.  “You’re…fine?”

“Go back to the table.  I’ll be out in ten minutes.”  He glanced at the trucker.  “Maybe five.”

“You…uh, I mean…I don’t understand.  I mean, I – I _understand_, but are you, uh, are you saying you…that is…”

“Jesus Christ,” John growled.  Taking the trucker by the shoulders, he maneuvered him around until they had exchanged places in the tiny stall, then yanked the door open a crack. The right side of McKay’s flushed face appeared.  “I am trying to get us a ride to Kansas City, McKay.  Now, if you’ll just go back out there and finish your coffee—”

“I’ve already had six cups,” McKay blurted.  

“This guy comin’ with you?”

“Yeah,” John said, aware that he was rapidly losing control of the situation but not sure what to do about it.

“You didn’t mention nothin’ about another guy.”

John turned back to the trucker.  “Don’t worry.  I’ll make it worth your while.”

McKay’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.  “Oh, my God.  You can’t.”

John didn’t quite look him in the eye.  “Believe me, I can.”

McKay’s mouth opened and closed three times, then did it once more for good measure.  

And then his jaw clenched and his expression grew grim and determined.  It was the same look he’d given Conrad when threatened with the Wraith.

This time it was John’s jaw that dropped a little.

McKay shoved open the stall door wide enough to reach John, then wrapped long fingers around his wrist and dragged him out.  He released John just before reaching the door so that he could dig in his jacket pocket and fish out his wallet.

“I got twenty bucks for anybody who’ll take me and my friend to Colorado!” he crowed as he emerged from the bathroom.  John sighed, though whether it was from exasperation or relief, he didn’t want to say.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
The trucker stopped for the night somewhere in the middle of Missouri, by which point Rodney said he had to get out of the back of the truck or suffer a severe attack of claustrophobia.  John was a little leery of leaving the vehicle, but sleeping by the side of the road was out of the question; as soon as another truck blew by, Rodney started sneezing uncontrollably.

“You’re allergic to everything, aren’t you?”

“Just most of the things found in the outdoors,” McKay managed between sneezes.  “There must be goldenrod around here somewhere.  Or maybe a lilac bush.”

“Oh, brother,” John muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”  He pointed to a huge old oak tree a couple of hundred feet from the road.  The ground around it looked soft and inviting in the moonlight.  “Come on.  We’ll camp out under the stars just like the old pioneers.”  
   
“Let me guess,” Rodney said.  “You’re crazy about Gary Cooper movies.”

“Yeah,” John agreed.  “But only because I’m crazy about Gary Cooper.”

It was late, the land lit by nothing but the crescent moon, but John felt as awake as he would have walking down the Great White Way.  The relief after a solid thirty-six hours of running on adrenaline was only just starting to seep into his bones, but for now he was still restless.  

He wasn’t alone, though.  As they settled under John’s blanket, the two of them so close as to be nearly touching, McKay rolled to face him and propped his head up on an elbow.

“I’ve been wondering something.  Where _did _you learn that trick with the letter opener?” he asked.  

John smiled fondly.  “I worked for a circus a few years ago.  There was this sword swallower…” He rolled over onto his side and looked up at McKay from under his eyelashes.  “He taught me a few things.”

It was fun watching McKay’s Adam’s apple bob three or four times before he spoke.  “Oh.  That’s good, I mean, uh, that’s – yes.”

John fought down a laugh and lay back on the ground. He closed his eyes.

“So, you’re, um,” McKay said after a moment.

John opened his eyes again.  “Queer?  Yeah.  Mostly.”  He glanced at McKay.  “You gonna have me arrested?”

“Don’t be stupid,” McKay snapped.  “I don’t believe in state regulation of sexual mores.”

“I’m sure all the people who like to fuck sheep will be very grateful to you if you ever get elected to high office.”

McKay just rolled his eyes at that.  “Sometimes I wonder if you take anything seriously.”

“I try not to,” John said.  “At least I’ve _been _trying for about twenty years or so.  Unfortunately, I met someone yesterday who kind of put an end to my carefree existence.”

“Oh,” McKay said quietly.  In the moonlight, John could just make out the pinched lines around his mouth.  “Sorry about that.”

“S’okay,” John said equitably.  “Guess it was time for a change.”  McKay looked at him, his gaze unreadable, though John was pretty sure he wouldn’t want to read it even if he could.

“So now we’re down to thirty bucks,” he said when the silence stretched.

“Twenty-nine thirty,” Rodney corrected.  “Breakfast.”  He dug in his inside jacket pocket and produced four chocolate bars.  “And Hershey’s.”

“And you really expect to get to Nevada on less than thirty bucks?”  

McKay shifted uncomfortably in the silvered darkness.  “Twenty’s getting us halfway there.”

“If we can trust this guy to get us there,” John muttered.

“What do you mean by that?”

John shrugged.  “I just don’t know if it’ll prove to be worth almost half your money.”

McKay gaped.  “Oh, forgive me for stopping you from sacrificing your – your virtue—”

“My what?”  John spluttered.

McKay scowled.  “Well.  At any rate, in case you didn’t notice, cheap sex with strangers in bathroom stalls was not part of the job description.”

John smiled evilly.  “I wouldn’t call twenty bucks cheap.”

“You were only going to get us to Kansas City!” McKay roared.

“Okay,” John drawled, “ten bucks.”

Silence prevailed for a couple of minutes, minutes in which John could practically hear the gears grinding inside McKay’s skull.  

“I’d like you to promise not to do that again,” McKay said finally.  John wanted to rage at that, but he couldn’t, because McKay’s voice was so quiet and inexplicably hurt when he added,  “You said we were in this together.”

“We are.  That’s why I wanted to hold up my end.”

McKay stared at him.

“I _mean_,” John corrected, “I wanted to help out.  I don’t have any dough.”

“There are things more important than money,” McKay said solemnly.

“Like my virtue.”

McKay reddened but held his gaze.  “Yes.”  He was so damned earnest it made John feel ashamed, and he hadn’t felt that way in a hell of a long time.  He should have been mad at McKay for that, but he couldn’t quite manage it.  Instead, he murmured, “I haven’t had any virtue since I was sixteen, McKay.”  He was shocked when a statement he’d intended to be cocky and harsh came out in a near whisper.

“Rodney.”

John frowned.  “What?”

“Rodney.  Please call me Rodney.”

“Okay,” John said, nonplussed.  The incident in the diner seemed to have shaken McKay – Rodney – even more than it had John.  He wasn’t sure what that meant.

He was trying his damnedest not to want to find out, but as he studied Rodney’s open, honest face, he knew it was going to be an uphill battle.  

  


    
    
    
 

**Chapter Six**

 

John wasn’t really surprised to wake up in the morning and find the truck was gone.  

He was a little surprised, though, to find Rodney stuck to him like a leech.

Rodney was a sound sleeper, because he didn’t even budge when John shook him gently, just snuffled loudly and squeezed John even more tightly around the middle.  His left arm was wrapped around John’s midriff and his head was pillowed on John’s chest, over his heart.  John’s own left arm no longer felt like it was there; he leaned over a little and was relieved to see a couple of fingers sticking out from under McKay’s torso.

He opened his mouth to tell McKay to stop cutting off the blood flow to his arm before he got gangrene.  And then McKay made a soft, sighing noise, trailed his fingers up John’s side and threw his leg over John’s thighs, and all the breath left John’s body in a rush because holy _shit_, McKay was hard.  No doubt he was dreaming about some leggy blonde draped over a jet cowling, but he was still – wow, _rubbing _– against John and producing low, sexy sounds John never would have imagined coming from McKay’s throat.

Unfortunately, having someone with a dick rub against him was exactly the kind of thing John liked to dream about, and so McKay’s actions had an unfortunate but predictable effect on him.  God, it had been way too long since he’d had sex, and while that joyless encounter in the bathroom yesterday wasn’t his idea of a good time, at least following it through would have killed his libido sufficiently that he wouldn’t be so easily aroused now.  

Rodney – _McKay _shifted then, wiggling his way up John’s body until the inside of his leg was pressing against John’s dick and his hair was tickling John’s cheek.  Rodney’s hand glided over John’s chest and collarbone until it found skin, nails scraping against the grain of John’s stubble –

– and then Rodney sucked in a sharp lungful of air and started awake.  He pushed against John’s chest and stared down at him, wide-eyed and gape-mouthed.

“Good morning, Rodney,” John said brightly, while he clenched his toes and ordered his hips to keep still.

“Oh my God,” Rodney said.  He blinked at his own leg for a moment like he didn’t recognize it, then shoved away from John so quickly it looked like he’d been jerked backward on invisible strings.  The loss of pressure on his dick made John ache; he fought down the urge to stick his own hand down his pants and finish what McKay had inadvertently started.

“Oh my God,” McKay said again.

“I heard you the first time,” John grunted, sitting up and bending his knees to hide the evidence of his reaction.

“I’m sorry, I mean I’m not, I mean that wasn’t—” Rodney babbled, hands flapping like a wounded bird.

“Relax,” John murmured, scrubbing at his face to wake himself all the way up.  “My virtue’s still intact, and so’s yours.”  After several failed attempts he managed to twitch his left index finger, but the rest of the arm was still moribund.  

“I just – I need to explain—”

“I get it, Mc – Rodney.”  John shrugged his left shoulder and watched the arm flop around like a rag doll’s.  “Everybody has dreams like that.  Forget it.”

Rodney blinked at him.  “Everybody?”

John waved his right hand.  “Sure.  You were thinking of Myrna Loy, and I was the nearest warm body.  It’s perfectly natural.”

“Myrna – yes.  Right.  Fine.  Good.”  Rodney blinked again and slowly staggered to his feet, then surveyed his surroundings.  John started counting.

“Where’s the truck?” McKay squeaked.

Four seconds, John thought.  Not bad.  “It seems to be gone.”

“Yes, I can see that,” McKay said petulantly.  “But gone where?”

John pointed westward.  “I’m thinking…that way.”

McKay flopped back down on the grass.  “That bastard.  He should’ve woken us up.”

“Well, to be fair to him,” John drawled, “maybe he tried, but when he found us all cuddly and cozy, he might’ve changed his mind about taking us to Colorado.”

Rodney’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.

John grinned at him.  “After all, your average truck driver is a big fan of the state regulation of sexual mores.”

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
When something like the fifty-sixth car went whizzing past them, John sighed and flexed his thumb before he lost the feeling in that, too.

“You must be doing it wrong,” McKay hissed from behind a bush.  John had convinced him to hide, partly because even this far from Chicago he was still leery about Zelenka’s warning, and partly because one guy was more likely to get a ride than two.  Unfortunately, it seemed that New Deal prosperity had dried up the milk of human kindness in more than a few breasts; give some folks a job and a car and suddenly they forgot they’d been the ones sticking out their thumbs a couple of short years ago.

“I’m doing what I always do, and I always get a ride eventually.”

“Define eventually.”

“Long before you quit whining about it,” John snapped.

“Wonderful,” McKay said.  “I’ll just take a little nap back here, shall I?”

“If it means you stop talking…”

Rodney’s outraged splutter was drowned out by the roar of a powerful engine.  John looked up in time to see a bright yellow Cord whiz by them at top speed.

“You missed that one!” McKay yelled.

John shook his head.  “No point.  That rich SOB wouldn’t have stopped for us in a million years.”

Which was, of course, the exact moment when the Cord came roaring back the way it had came, executed a perfect pirouette in front of them and screeched to a stop three inches from John’s right foot.

The driver was a redhead with bobbed hair and freckles and a yellow suit to match her car.  She wore tortoiseshell cheaters and her lips were thin but attractive.  

She pulled off the sunglasses and leaned across the back of the seat to look at John.  “Are you a Forgotten Man?” she asked, her voice low and eager.

“Pardon me, ma’am?” John asked, momentarily stunned.

“Oh, dear, I’ve gotten you dusty,” the woman murmured, looking him up and down.  

“It’s okay, I was dusty before.”

“Hm.  Yes.  Well, I’ll repeat the question.  Are you a Forgotten Man?”

John debated for a second and a half over which answer would get him the ride.  “Yes,” he said finally, infusing his expression with as much pathos as he could muster.  “Yes, I am.”

“Oh, wonderful!” the woman exclaimed, practically clapping her hands with excitement.  “You see, I need one, and you’ll be perfect.”

“Will I?” John asked, his smile frozen on his face.  He briefly considered joining Rodney in the bush.

“Yes.  Where are you going?”

“Out West, but for now we’d be obliged for a drive into Kansas City if you’re headed that far.”

“That’s exactly where I’m headed!” she said brightly.  “I—” her brow furrowed.  “I’m sorry – we?”

John winced; he hadn’t meant to spring it on her that quickly.  “Uh, yeah.  My buddy could use a ride, too.”

She scanned the side of the road.  “Is he an invisible – buddy?”

“Rodney,” John called.  “C’mon out.”

Rodney’s head poked out of the top of the bush, causing the woman to reel back a little in her seat.  John glanced at him; there were leaves stuck in his hair.

The woman leaned in to John.  “Is he a Forgotten Man too?” she whispered.

“I sure hope so,” John whispered back.

The woman nodded sagely, as if that made perfect sense.  “He’s a bit well-nourished,” she observed.  John heard Rodney suck in a scandalized breath behind him.

“Don’t worry.  He hasn’t eaten in a couple of days; it’ll start catching up with him soon.”

“Well, I only need him for the afternoon, so I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it,” she said, almost sadly.  “You can sit in the front with me, Mr.?”

“Sheppard.  John Sheppard.”

She stuck out a hand as he opened the passenger door.  “I’m Elizabeth Weir.”  She arched a graceful eyebrow at Rodney as he scrambled into the back seat.  “Please don’t touch anything.”

John could practically hear the steam whistling out of Rodney’s ears.

“Now, John,” Elizabeth said, patting his knee in an almost maternal way before shoving the car into gear, “why don’t you tell me all about your life of despair and heartbreak.”

Rodney’s snort was loud enough to be heard for several miles.

“Well, Elizabeth,” John said, “it all started when I was a small boy in County Cork…”

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
“Bullshit!”

“Shhh!” John hissed, throwing a glance back at the car.  Thankfully, Elizabeth was engaged in a lively conversation with a hobo and wasn’t paying attention to them.

“That was the most ridiculous story I’ve ever heard!” Rodney continued, undeterred.  “Your tragic Irish mother—”

“Hey, my mother _was _Irish.  Kind of.”

“—and your drunkard father and your sister who contracted _leprosy _while doing missionary work in Africa!  Jesus wept!”

“I figure it’ll get us a better meal when we end up wherever she’s taking us.”

Rodney’s jaw dropped.  “You’re not seriously thinking of going.”

“Why not?” John asked, momentarily distracted by a familiar advertisement on a telephone pole.  

“She’s going to take us to her lair and show us off to her friends at a party.”

“So what?  Rich people have great food.”

“She’s _insane_,” Rodney insisted.  “When her guests are gone she’s going to cook us and eat us, so what does it matter the stuffing she uses?”

“Nah, she doesn’t want to eat me, just fuck me,” John said easily.  “You, on the other hand, are nicely marbled.  She might cook you.”

“Oh, for—” Rodney spluttered.  “We are not going _anywhere _with that madwoman.  We are going to walk in this door—” he pointed to the door in question “—and send a telegram to General Hammond.  I’m sure there’s a way he can wire us some money, and then I can hire a car and we can—”

“Wait a minute,” John said, grabbing Rodney’s arm and stopping him dead in his tracks.  “How do we know the Nazis aren’t on the lookout for you here?”

“We don’t.  That’s why I’m not inclined to head for the train stations or bus stations or airstrips.”

“Well, they might have thought about telegraph offices too, don’t you think?”

Rodney rolled his eyes.  “Do you have any idea how many telegraph offices there are in a place the size of Kansas City?”

John sighed.

“In order for there to be Nazis in this particular telegraph office,” Rodney continued, jabbing a finger at the door, “they would have to be so numerous that every second person in this town would have a picture of Hitler over their mantelpiece.”  He strode up to the door of the office and pulled it open.  

“Or,” John said, raising a finger, “they could just be really lucky.  Maybe they’ve got a handful of guys keeping an eye on the Western Union offices.”

“The statistical improbability of that is so ridiculously high—”

And that was when John looked up and met the gaze of two tall, blonde, blue-eyed guys with sharply tailored suits and expressions that told him they were in deep, deep trouble.

“Sorry to throw off your bell curve,” John murmured out of the corner of his mouth, “but do those guys look like Nazis to you?”

Rodney’s mouth worked for a second or two before he could produce a successful sound.  “Yes,” he said finally, though it was more of a bleat than an actual word.  

“Wanna go tell them they’re a statistical anomaly?”

Rodney’s answer was to grab John by the arm and yank him backwards just as the Aryan poster boys started advancing toward them.

“Just so you know,” Rodney huffed as they pounded down the street, “I hate that you know words like ‘anomaly’.”

“Confuses the hell out of you, doesn’t it?” John said, panting lightly.  They were weaving through lunchtime crowds, businessmen in suits and shopgirls in dresses that showed a glimpse of knee when they walked.  John took all this in as he tried to get his bearings.  It had been a few years since he’d been in KC, but he figured he could still find the place he was looking for.

The only problem was, he could hear – and see, when he risked a glance back – the Nazis growing a little closer with every step.  They weren’t going to last long on foot.  He checked McKay, who was already puffing like a steam engine.  Shit.

They blew past the Cord without even acknowledging Elizabeth’s wave; he heard her nasal shout but didn’t have time to answer her.  Frantically, he scanned the street ahead, looking for an alley or another way to lose them.  The handbill he’d seen earlier had given him an idea, but they’d have to get there first, and the fairgrounds were miles away.  

When he looked back again, he was surprised to see the Nazis were no longer following them.  Slowing his pace, he waited for McKay to catch up.

“What – why are you—” McKay panted “—slowing down?”

“They’re not behind us any more.”

McKay turned his head; his eyes widened in terror.  “That’s because they’re _right beside us._  Look out!”

Rodney’s big hands yanked him backwards just as the hood of a huge black sedan decided to occupy the space where he’d been a second ago.  “Jesus!”  John stumbled back, nearly toppling the both of them as he scrambled to avoid the car.

A screeching sound came from directly behind them; John’s gut flipped.  God, they were everywhere, there was no way—

“Don’t just stand there, get in!”

John whirled to see the yellow Cord pulled to a stop directly behind the sedan.  Tugging at Rodney’s sleeve, he sprinted for the car, leaping over the door and landing in the back seat.  He moved swiftly so that Rodney would have room to do the same; as it was, he landed half on top of John.

“Drive!  Drive!” John yelled, in between gasps for air.

“Thank you, John!  I never would have thought of that on my own!” Elizabeth yelled back, flooring the accelerator.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
Elizabeth turned out to be a completely reckless driver, which thankfully was exactly what they needed.  The lumbering sedan never managed to catch up with them, but John was nervous about the likelihood of being spotted again in such a conspicuous car.  Once they were sure the Nazis weren’t following, John directed her to drive to the fairgrounds.

“You don’t want to take it on the lam?” Elizabeth asked, her eyes reflecting a mixture of excitement and disappointment.  

John shook his head, trying to look equally crushed at the prospect.  “It’s not safe for us on the road.  It’s not safe for you, either.  Can you drive straight home and avoid using that car for the next few days?”

Elizabeth waved a hand.  “Of course.  I have six others.”

“Of course,” Rodney muttered.  

John elbowed him.  “In case you’ve forgotten, you weren’t exactly broke yourself,” he whispered.

“I had two cars!  Two!” Rodney hissed.

Elizabeth shrugged.  “Ah well, I suppose it just wasn’t meant to be, John.  Our moment has passed.”

John produced a forlorn expression.  “I’m sorry, Elizabeth.”

“That’s all right.  I forgive you,” she said magnanimously.  “And here we are.”  She pulled to a stop outside the entrance to the fairgrounds; John leapt over the door again and stood beside the car.

“Goodbye,” John said.  “And thanks.  You’ll never know how much we appreciate this.”

“Au revoir,” she said, holding out a hand; John took it and gallantly kissed the back.

“Oh, please,” Rodney sighed.

“Mister McKay,” Elizabeth said haughtily, “you are in no position to judge our tragedy.  You are a Philistine.”  And blowing John a final kiss, she sped off down the street.

John turned to Rodney, who was staring at him pointedly.  

“What?”

Rodney shook his head.  “Do you generate your own gravitational field?  Really, it’s the only possible explanation, because you’re not _that _attractive.”

John started walking toward the entrance to the fairgrounds.  “Quit being such a Philistine, willya?”

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
He wasn’t sure what kind of reception he’d get, because the boss of the show had been extremely unsorry to see him go four years ago, especially after John had punched him in the nose.  

“Do you mind telling me why we’re wandering through a –” Rodney produced an irritated grunting noise as yet another child bumped into him “–carnival midway when we should be _running for our lives?_”

Taking McKay by the arm, John led him down between two barkers’ tents and toward the employees’ area of the grounds.  “Because there’s nowhere to go that’s safe right now except here.  I know some of the people who work here, and they might be able to help us out until we’re ready to move on.”

“And when, in your opinion, will we be ready to move on?” McKay demanded, coming to a stop and folding his arms.

“Tomorrow, I think.  They’ll probably have assumed we’ve left town, and we’ll have a decent night’s sleep under our belts.”

“What’s to stop them from coming here?” Rodney asked, still unconvinced.

“Haven’t you heard?  Nazis hate elephants.”

“What ele – oh my _God,_” Rodney said, which John assumed meant he’d just noticed that Maisie and Trudy were walking right behind them.  

“Hey, girls.”  They reached out their trunks and touched John’s outstretched hands affectionately while Rodney cringed and cowered, obviously expecting a death blow.  “Relax.  They’re harmless.”

Rodney scowled at him.  “Most animals hate me.”

John batted his eyelashes.  “I can’t imagine how that could happen.”

“They’re not killing us, why aren’t they killing us?”

“Because they eat plants?” John supplied helpfully.  Rodney glared.  “Come on, show them you like them.”  And with that he grabbed Rodney’s hand and held it up to Maisie’s snout.

Rodney squeaked as she snuffled his palm delicately.  Trudy lumbered forward for a sniff, too, and John felt Rodney’s pulse leap in his wrist.

“Easy,” John murmured.  Rodney’s gaze rose and locked with his, and John sucked in a breath.

Rodney’s pulse evened out slowly as they stared at one another, and after God knew how long John realized the elephants had moved on and he was still holding onto McKay’s wrist like an idiot.

“Yeah, uh,” John muttered, forcing his fingers to uncurl from the home they’d found against Rodney’s pale skin.  “Let’s get going, huh?”

Rodney swallowed and nodded, falling into step behind him.  They walked in silence past performers and animals getting ready for the show.  Some of the faces he recognized, but not well enough to bother interrupting their work.  As they walked by a brightly-colored tent, two voices shouted his name in unison, and he was grinning even before he turned.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” John said, laughing into the startled faces of his old friends.

The first of the pair squealed and threw an arm around him.  “You crazy bastard!” Laura exclaimed.  “We thought for sure you’d cracked up somewhere.”

Samantha smiled and hugged him from the other side.  “It’s good to see you, John,” she said earnestly, and John felt an unexpected lump form in his throat.

“Good to see you, too,” he murmured, embracing them both.  “It’s been too long.”

“Yes, it has,” Sam agreed.  “What brings you here?”

“Well, see, it’s like this,” John said, rubbing at his neck.  “We’re in a little bit of trouble—”

“Cops or loan shark?” Laura asked, pursing her rouged lips.

“Neither,” John answered.  “Uh, it’s kind of complicated.”  He glanced at Rodney.  “This is Doctor Rodney McKay, and he…”

He trailed off when he realized that Rodney was staring at the girls like they were…well, freaks.

John held up a finger at the girls before turning to McKay.  “Don’t stare,” he whispered.  “They hate it when you stare.”

“They’re—”

John nodded.  “Siamese twins.  Get over it.  Now.”

McKay looked up at him.  “Okay,” he said, mouth growing determined.  John fought down the urge to kiss it until it softened again.

“Sorry about that,” John said to the girls.  “Rodney McKay, meet Samantha Carter and Laura Cadman.”

“Ladies,” Rodney said, bowing over each of their hands in turn and kissing them lightly.  

“He’s Canadian,” John offered.

“Oh,” Sam said, nodding sagely.  “I’m sorry,” she said to Rodney.

Rodney’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times, finally resolving itself into a frozen smile.  John figured that was the best thing all around.

“Would you mind if we flopped with you tonight?  I promise we’ll be out of your hair in the morning.”

Laura waved a hand.  “No problem.  I have a hot date, so I might not be back until late.”

“Anybody I know?” John asked, arching a brow.

“He’s a doctor,” Sam said, waggling her eyebrows.  “He’s _fascinated_.”

“Yeah, he said he wanted to study my genes,” Laura said, laughing.  “Cute accent, though.  Sounds just like Robert Donat.”

“Why don’t you watch the show?” Sam asked, nodding toward the big top.  “You can head on up to the nosebleed seats – they’re not likely to fill up.”

“Sure,” John said, leaning in to give them both pecks on the cheek.  “Thanks.”

“No thanks necessary,” Laura said, waving at them as they walked away.  “See you later.”

When they were out of earshot, Rodney said, “Just, ah, _one _of them has the date with the doctor?”

John nodded.  Rodney’s mouth opened in an “o”, but he said nothing else aloud.

“You did great back there, Rodney.”

“Really?”

John thought about it.  “No.” 

He could practically hear Rodney sulking with every step he took.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
Rodney, as it turned out, was afraid of heights, and so they didn’t make it up quite as high as Sam had suggested.  They compromised somewhere near the middle, high enough so that his old boss wasn’t likely to pick John out of the crowd, but low enough that McKay didn’t start hyperventilating.  

Back under the big top that had been his second home for a few good months, John let the fond memories wash over him, calming him and restoring his equilibrium.  It wasn’t surprising that he felt an affinity for people most other people saw as freaks.  He’d spent most of his life knowing he didn’t belong in polite society, and so had they.  And like them, it wasn’t a question of making a choice:  it was the only choice possible.

He glanced at Rodney between the trapeze and the lion act, and was startled to find him grinning like a little boy.  When Rodney turned his head and unleashed that grin on him, John felt something inside him turn to mush.  He hoped it was something he could live without.  

_Dumb, John, really dumb,_ he chastised himself.  _You’re not on a date, and you aren’t getting a kiss goodnight at the end of the evening._

“I haven’t been to a circus since I was nine,” Rodney said, still grinning.  “I’m having fun.”

“You sound surprised,” John said.

“Well, I _was _being chased by Nazis a couple of hours ago,” Rodney quipped.

John raised his eyebrows.  “Let’s not bring up painful topics.”

McKay snorted, then turned his attention back to the floor as the ringmaster announced the next act on his bullhorn.  

“_And now, laydeez and gentlemen, be prepared for thrills, chills and spine-tingling excitement, as six of darkest Africa’s most ferocious lions are put through their paces by their fearsome taskmaster, Ronon Dex!_”

John leaned forward in his seat, surprised as hell to see Dex stride out into the ring wearing a skintight pair of cowhide pants, tall black boots and a flowing white shirt open nearly to his navel, exposing a chest that beat Johnny Weismuller’s any day.  He glanced around him and noticed he wasn’t the only one paying closer attention; the estrogen level in the tent was climbing so high it made his head spin.

“Another of your…friends?”

John glanced at Rodney, whose face was now oddly twisted.  “Yeah.  He used to do a knife act when I knew him, though.”

“What kind of name is Ronon Dex?”

“He never really told me,” John said, smiling faintly.  “He prefers to be an enigma.”

“Is he the, uh, the sword swallower?” McKay asked after a pained silence.

John shook his head.  “No, that was another guy.”

“Just how many…oh, never mind,” Rodney muttered.

John couldn’t help himself.  “Jealous, Rodney?” he asked, arching an eyebrow and turning to him.

Even in the low light, John could see Rodney flush a bright, incriminating scarlet.  “Of course not,” he squawked.  “Why would I be?  I mean, in order to be jealous, I’d have to be – and I’m not – I mean – never mind!”  He folded his arms protectively over his chest and scowled down at the center ring, where Dex was starting to free the big cats from their cages.

John turned back to the action on the floor, the knot in his gut having nothing to do with the chills and thrills of the circus.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
There was one thing about Dex that hadn’t changed.  He was still one sexy son of a bitch.  And when he hugged you, it was sure you were going to still be feeling it for a week.  When Dex wrapped his arms around him and squeezed, John was yanked right up off the ground.  

“Jesus, Dex!” John managed with the last bit of breath left in his lungs.  After a moment, Ronon eased off, but kept his hands firmly planted on John’s shoulders.

“Thought you were dead,” Ronon said simply, a smile curving his sinful lips.

“Why does everyone think that?” John demanded, throwing up his hands.  

“Maybe ‘cause when you left you looked like a guy who wanted to get himself killed?” Dex retorted, cocking his head.  

John winced, feeling Rodney’s eyes boring into the back of his skull as they began to walk away from the big top.  The crowds of rubes had cleared out and now all that remained were the circus people – and John and Rodney.  “Yeah, well, let’s just say it wasn’t a happy time.  But what’s going on with you?” he asked.  “Last time I saw you, you were doing the knife throwing thing.”

Dex's face acquired an expression that on anyone else would be called sheepish.  “They thought I should try another line of work.”

“How come?”

“Last knife I threw, I didn’t miss.”

John stared at him.

Ronon shrugged.  “I was _trying _to hit him.”

“Well,” John said.  “That’s all right, then.”

Ronon glanced back at Rodney, then turned to Sheppard.  “So.  You want to, uh, get together tonight?”  He took a step closer, and John imagined he felt the heat of him in the cooling night air.  “For old times’ sake?”

John looked up at him, trying not to let his gaze stray to Rodney.  _You don’t owe Rodney anything,_ John reminded himself.  _You haven’t been laid in four months and the edge is starting to get pretty sharp.  If Dex can’t dull it down, nobody can._

“Sure,” he said, ignoring the soft intake of breath he heard behind him.  Gathering his resolve into a hard, compact ball, John turned to Rodney and smiled.  “You can find your own way back, right?”

Rodney’s jaw worked convulsively and he actually had the balls to look…Jesus, _hurt_.  Where the hell was that coming from?  “No,” he said, voice breaking a little.  “No, that’s fine, I’ll be—” he pointed a finger in the direction of Laura and Sam’s tent “—over there, then.  Good night.”

“Sweet dreams,” Ronon murmured.  Rodney didn’t look back.

When Ronon turned back to John, there was a puzzled look on his face.

“You guys have a fight?”

“No, we did not have a _fight_!” John snapped.  “We’re not – let’s just go, all right?”

Ronon raised his eyebrows.  “Funny,” he muttered.  “Don’t remember you being this bossy the last time.”

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
“Come on, come _on_,” John gritted.

Ronon looked down at him, eyes almost unreadable in the near darkness of his tent.  John met them for a few seconds before the question in them forced him to shift his gaze to the ceiling.

“No,” Dex said after a few moments, his hands withdrawing from John’s aching body.  “I don’t think so.”

John closed his eyes.  “Look, I’ve had a really rough couple of days.  I’m sure if you – uh, give me a little time, I’ll—”

Ronon silenced him with a brush of his lips.  “No,” he murmured against John’s mouth.  “That’s not it.”

_Then what?_ John almost asked.  _You tell me what it is. _ The reason he didn’t say it aloud was that Dex would answer him, and then he really would be in trouble.

“I must be nuts not to want to fuck you,” John sighed.

“Yeah, you must be,” Dex agreed, and now his eyes were sparkling.  “But you know something?  I think both of us are gonna survive.”

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
John left Dex’s tent nearly three hours later, worn out from talking about everything and nothing.  Of course, John had done most of the talking and Dex had done most of the listening, but Ronon had always been pretty good at that.  John didn’t want to get into too much detail about the Nazis, but when he hinted that he needed to get out of town fast, Ronon said he might have a solution for him in the morning.  They parted on friendly terms, and John left the tent with as good a feeling as a man could have considering he hadn’t been able to get it up for the most edible man in Kansas City.

_I’m just getting old,_ John told himself as he parted the flap on the twins’ tent and stepped inside. _ It doesn’t have to mean anything._

He blinked when he belatedly realized the inside of the tent was glowing faintly with soft lamplight.  Looking up, he saw three pairs of eyes staring back at him:  one pair startled, the other two narrowed and accusing.

“It’s about time,” Laura said acidly.  “Done making the rounds?”

John could only stare at her, dumbstruck.  What the _hell_?  He took a moment before responding to study the scene before him.  Rodney, Sam and Laura were all sitting on cushions, the lamp burning between them, and they appeared to be drinking tea from a gigantic silver pot.  Rodney was perched cross-legged on the biggest cushion, a china plate of half-masticated cookies in his lap.

_Oh, Jesus,_ John thought.  _You have got to be kidding me._

Sam raised a hand.  “Now, Laura, we should give him a chance…”

“Fuck that,” Laura spat.  “Or maybe I should say, ‘Fuck Ronon’, right, John?”  She drew a deep breath, revving her engine for an extended tongue-lashing.

John held up a finger.  “Rodney,” he said silkily, “would you be so kind as to step outside with me for a moment?”

“Don’t you think he’s put up with enough from—” Laura began heatedly, but Sam shushed her.

Rodney’s wide blue eyes darted from the girls to John and back.  “A – all right,” he said.  Rodney’s fear at being found out obviously looked like fear of _John_, because the girls shot even more venomous glares at him.  Christ, what kind of bullshit story had Rodney told them?  

Rodney started to speak as soon as they left the tent, but John clapped a hand over his mouth and hauled him down the aisle and behind one of the barker’s tents, now silent and dark.  Rodney made a muffled sound of protest, and John finally took his hand away.

“It wasn’t my fault!  It wasn’t my fault!” Rodney blathered the second he was released.  “When they got back and found me alone they asked me where you were, and then they just kind of drew their own conclusions and…things got complicated!”  He folded his arms.  “I tried to explain we weren’t – you know – but they didn’t believe me!  Everything I said seemed to make it sound…worse…” he trailed off, looking away “…so eventually I just gave up.”

“Was that before or after they trotted out the tea and cookies?”

Rodney froze, guilt washing over his expressive features.  “They’re really good cookies,” he said, eyes glazing.  “Almond and raspberry.  Apparently there’s this little Swedish bakery over on—”

“Rodney.”

“Yes?” Rodney looked up at him from under his long lashes, and Christ, John was not going to get aroused now by Rodney McKay’s goddamned _eyelashes _after he’d had six foot five of muscular, naked _lion tamer_ at his disposal a short while ago.

John poked a finger at the center of Rodney’s chest and used it to punctuate his speech.  “You are going to go back in there and tell those girls we are _not _a couple.  You are going to explain to them that you are _not _my boyfriend, that you in fact have never _had _a boyfriend, and that you don’t _want _a boyfriend.  That, in fact, you wouldn’t know what to do with a _cock_—” Rodney winced “—if somebody came up behind you and stuck one in your ass!”

Rodney stared up at him, gaze faintly accusing, and John felt his blood boil.  “You don’t have to be so crude about it,” he sulked.  “Laura and Sam and I – we _bonded_.  It’s not as easy as you—”

John’s hand flattened against Rodney’s chest, shoving him backward until Rodney was nearly buried in the soft folds of the tent.  “Rodney…” he growled.

Rodney sucked in a sharp lungful of air and sneezed, turning his head aside at the last moment to avoid spraying John with mucus.  “Sorry,” he murmured, wiping his nose.  “This canvas is musty.”

John was dimly aware of the earthy smell of the canvas, the pressure against his fingers as they dug into Rodney’s upper arms, the hoarse rasp of Rodney’s breathing, the rapid rise and fall of his chest.  Everything narrowed and sharpened to starry points, as though he were seeing the world reflected through ice crystals, each small sliver of reality detached from the next.

“You’re driving me nuts,” John whispered, feeling the puff of Rodney’s breath over his sensitized lips.  

“S – sorry,” Rodney managed, his lips trembling against John’s like a butterfly that didn’t know if it was safe to land, and then his head tilted to the side and rose slightly and holy _shit _Rodney was kissing him, tentative and obviously scared as all hell, but that only made it _better_.  John sighed and eased the grip of his fingers, sliding his hands up Rodney’s shoulders to finally cup his face gently.  

Rodney’s response to that was to tilt his head even more and lick at John’s lips, and John reciprocated, tasting powdered sugar and almonds at the corner of Rodney’s mouth, strong tea deeper in, and Rodney underneath it all.  Rodney groaned and twisted his hands in John’s hair, pulling him in close.  Their legs tangled together and John stumbled, nearly toppling Rodney backward into the tent.

“God,” John breathed, breaking off the kiss to right them both.  “I do not want to explain to my old boss why we knocked this tent over.”

“Yeah,” Rodney rasped, panting lightly, “I can – I can definitely understand that.”  He was looking stunned and a little daffy and extremely well-kissed, and it took a considerable effort of will for John to let him go.  He had to do it, though, or he’d end up fucking Rodney against the nearest available solid surface, and something told him Rodney wasn’t ready for that.  John’s dick, which had miraculously risen from the dead, launched a powerful but ultimately doomed protest.  Rodney himself looked up at John in a puzzled fashion; he opened his mouth, then closed it again and looked away.

“Listen, I…” John trailed off, uncertain which of the six dozen different things he should say, before settling on, “I didn’t – nothing happened with Ronon.”  

_Wonderful_, John thought as soon as the words were out.  That particular detail had been dead last on his list, so of course that would be the one his brain would offer up.

Rodney stared at him for a long moment before breaking into a grin that stole the breath from John’s lungs.  “Oh,” Rodney said, nodding rapidly.  “That’s…that’s good.”

“Awww.”

John spun around to see Sam and Laura peering at him from around another tent, their eyes brimming,  dreamy smiles plastered to their faces.  

“They made up,” Laura sighed.

“Told you so,” Sam said.  

John closed his eyes in pain.  “Yeah.  Great,” he muttered, frustration stiffening his walk as he strode toward the girls.

  
 

    
    
    
 

**Chapter Seven**

 

John didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.

“A car,” he said, stunned.  To be specific, an open-top Model A that looked like it had seen better decades, but still.  A _car_.

Ronon ducked his head; he’d been elected unofficial spokesman of the crowd that gathered around them in the early morning light.  “Yeah, well, we’re all pretty happy you’re not—”

“Dead?” John supplied.

“—and we kind of want to keep you that way.  So we all pitched in.”  He hooked a thumb at one of the mechanics.  “Know it doesn’t look like much, but Sollie says it’s in good shape.  Should get you where you need to go.”  He reached in his pocket and took a step forward, and before John knew what was happening Ronon had taken ahold of John’s hand and pressed several bills into it.

“No,” John protested.  This was – he didn’t deserve—

“Shut up,” Ronon said gruffly.  “You’re family, don’t you get that?”

John swallowed around the lump in his throat and nodded.  “Thanks,” he said, meeting the gazes of each person in turn.  “Thanks.”

When Ronon lifted him off the ground this time, he didn’t complain.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
The day was with them, at least, warm and sunny with just enough breeze to take the worst of the heat away.  The Model A was never going to break any speed records, but it was tuned just right, and it puttered along at a steady pace for the whole day.  John was careful to check the engine regularly, adding water to the radiator every time they stopped for gas.  The last thing they needed to do was blow a gasket.

They left Kansas late in the afternoon, though you couldn’t tell from the scenery; there were still huge drifts of topsoil in places, along with dry, parched river beds and hollow-eyed kids staring out of shadowed doorways.  It was depressing to see not much had changed since the last time he’d been here.

“I thought this was all fixed,” Rodney commented, after they’d passed yet another abandoned homestead, tattered curtains fluttering serenely from open windows.

John snorted.  “What made you think that?”

Rodney waved a hand.  “They’re always playing inspiring newsreels of young American men planting rows of trees and digging irrigation ditches.”

“That happened in some places,” John agreed.  “But since the Supreme Court killed off big parts of the relief effort last year, the money’s kind of dried up.  It doesn’t help when there’s nobody left to farm the land, either.  Half the population of Oklahoma’s already picked up everything they could carry and headed out west.”

“Hunh,” Rodney said.  He raised his hand to wave at a tall, skinny Negro girl working in a field.  She looked up, but didn’t wave back.

“They don’t have a Depression in Canada?” John asked.

“Of course they do,” Rodney snapped.  “It just…well,” he said, face falling.  “I suppose I’ve been living a rather…isolated life.”

And John had encountered rich guys before, guys whose money kept them insulated from all the desperation and misery that had been going on in the world for the last eight years, and he should’ve hated Rodney as much as he’d hated those guys.  But he couldn’t bring himself anywhere near it because he _knew _Rodney now, knew he wasn’t like the others.  He was one of those genius types who floated along on his own separate cloud, so wrapped up in his thoughts that the years would go by and he’d just keep building beautiful things that flew because he _had _to, because that’s what he’d been made for.  He didn’t understand the world, but then most of the world probably didn’t get him, either.

It must have been a pretty lonely existence for him up until now, and John, having had a little experience with loneliness, could sympathize with that.   He could sympathize with a lot of things about Rodney; that’s what was starting to scare the hell out of him.  Aloud, he said, sweeping his arm out across the windblown landscape, “Well, Doctor McKay, I give you the world as we know it.  What do you think?”

“It needs improvement,” Rodney said firmly.

“Amen to that,” John agreed.

When night came they’d made it almost to Oklahoma City and could have kept going, but by now both of them were justifiably skittish about their luck in big cities.  They stopped at a diner for a couple of hamburgers, then found what had to be one of the last operating motor courts in the northern part of the state and turned in to the dusty driveway just as the stars were beginning to make themselves known.  Rodney knocked at the door of the small office, and after a couple of minutes a heavyset woman in a dingy cotton shift poked her head out the door.

“One dollar up front,” she said, “otherwise you don’t stay.”

“A dollar?” Rodney croaked.  “I can get a room at the Palmer House for…”

“You ain’t at the Palmer House now, sonny, and it’s still a dollar.”

John sighed.  “Rodney, we’re good, believe me.”  The collection raised by Ronon had more than replaced what they’d lost on the trucker.  “Pay the nice lady.”

Rodney glared, then sighed, then reached in his jacket pocket for his wallet.  The woman’s eyes lit up when she saw the dollar.  Snatching it out of his hand before he could present it to her, she passed him a key, smiled toothily and said, “Cabin six, down at th’end.”

“Thank you,” Rodney muttered.  When he hopped back in the car, John raised an eyebrow at him.

“What?”

“You ain’t at the Palmer House now, sonny,” John drawled.

“Oh, shut up,” Rodney said, though the corners of his mouth jerked upward.

Rodney’s smile faded as he beheld the cabin a couple of minutes later.  “This is a cesspool.”

John struck a match and lit one of the lamps, then moved to the other at the far side of the room.  It wasn’t a palace, but it was clean, and the linens on the beds looked fresh enough, if a little worn by use and washing.

“It’s not so bad,” John said.  He peeked into the doorway on this side of the room.  “There’s even an indoor toilet.”

“Hallelujah,” Rodney muttered.  “God, I need a bath so badly.”

“There’s soap and a sink,” John said, jerking a thumb toward the bathroom, now lit by a small oil lamp.  “Knock yourself out.”

Rodney mumbled something that John pretended not to hear, then disappeared inside the bathroom and shut the door.  John surveyed both beds, then picked the one with the slightly newer sheets and decided to give that one to McKay.  Considering all the nights he’d slept out in the open over the years, having a roof was a luxury as far as he was concerned.  

Debating with himself for a moment, he began stripping out of his clothes.  In the summer he usually slept in as little as possible, and his trousers and shirt were so dusty he couldn’t stand the thought of wearing them to bed.  The ones in his pack were a little fresher, but not by much.  He laid them over the back of a chair, then set his shoes and socks under it.

He was down to his shorts when he heard the creak of the bathroom door.  Turning around, he met Rodney’s startled gaze, watched as Rodney’s cheeks slowly reddened.  John noticed his hair was damp and his eyelashes were glistening with moisture.

“I, uh,” John said, mouth suddenly dry.  He pointed at Rodney’s bed.  “I thought you could have that one.”

Rodney blinked a couple of times, face blank at first, then turning stricken as comprehension dawned.  “Oh.  Right.  Certainly.  I—”

“We should get some rest,” John heard himself say.  He sounded perfectly reasonable, he thought.

Rodney nodded.  “Yes.  Good idea. We, um—” he shook his head, took a deep breath, let it out “—did I not do it right?”

John frowned.  “What?”

“Because I could – if you’d allow me, that is – I’d like a chance to try again.  If – if that’s the problem.”

“Rodney,” John said slowly, “what are you—”  Rodney turned even redder, and John’s pulse jumped.  “Oh.  No, uh—” John licked his lips “—you were fine at – that.  Really.”

Rodney beamed like a kid who had just been given a puppy and took a step forward.  “Well, then—”

John held up a hand.  “That doesn’t mean we should do it again.”

“Why not?” Rodney demanded.

“Oh, I don’t know,” John said. “Because you’ve never been with a man?”

Rodney lifted his chin.  “How do you know?”

“_Rod_ney…”

“Well, how difficult can it be?” Rodney said, gesturing at various parts of John’s anatomy.  “I mean, it’s not like I’ve never seen – one – before, or…”  

“You can’t even _say _it,” John complained, even as his own dick woke up at the sight of those expressive hands swooping and darting.  He shoved away the thought of what those hands could do to him, of how they’d look as they moved over his—

Rodney set his jaw in a determined way and looked up at John.  “If you don’t want to, just say so.  I can handle rejection.”

John thought about lying, then sighed.  “I want to,” he said heavily.  “Maybe too much.”

Rodney frowned.  “What do you – oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_,” John agreed.

Rodney’s eyes widened.  “Do you mean you might – not be able to control yourself?” he asked in a hushed voice.

“For God’s sake, Rodney,” John snapped.  “I’m horny, not a rapist.  I just – I don’t want to scare you.”

Scowling, Rodney took another step forward.  “I’m not some blushing virgin,” he grumbled.

“You sure about that?” John drawled, smiling as he studied Rodney’s pink cheeks.

A muscle in Rodney’s jaw twitched.  He took one final step, then reached out and laid the palm of his hand right over the placket of John’s shorts.  The other stole lightning-quick around John’s bare back to pull him in close.

A startled “Jesus” was all John had time to breathe before McKay’s mouth crushed against his own.

Rodney, John swiftly decided, was a really good kisser.  Last night he’d demonstrated an admirable attention to detail and an endearing sweetness that had served to kick over every one of John’s defenses.  Tonight, this kiss was completely different, hard and wet and messy and not the least bit sweet, and after about ten seconds John was halfway to coming just from that kiss and the steady pressure on his cock.

Oh yeah.  It had been _far _too long.

“Rodney,” John murmured when Rodney broke off to start licking his neck, “Rodney, Rodney—”

“Shut up,” Rodney said, the hand at John’s back gliding down, “I can do this.”

“Rodney, I just – oh, God,” John moaned, because two of Rodney’s fingers had just slid under the waistband of his shorts at the back, dipping into the hollow at the top of his ass.

Rodney’s lips nibbled at John’s shoulder.  “All right?”

“Hell, yes,” John breathed, not sure what he was agreeing to but pretty sure he’d like it.  Rodney took his hand off John’s dick and his fingers off John’s ass, making John bite his tongue to keep from whimpering, but he was swiftly rewarded when his shorts were unbuttoned and gently pushed down over his hips.  Within seconds they were in a puddle around his feet.  Rodney lifted his head and bit him on the chin, then took his hand and wrapped it around John’s cock.

“Wait,” John panted as Rodney’s hand took up a slow but steady rhythm.  “You need to—”

Rodney’s answer was to seal his mouth to John’s, and the protest died on John’s lips.  Christ, okay, never let it be said that John didn’t believe in giving a guy a fair shake, because effort counted for a lot, and there was no reason why a new fella couldn’t show some real natural talent—

And then Rodney sped his strokes just enough to blow every last thought out of John’s ears, and by the time he could see something other than stars he was shuddering so much with the aftershocks he had to grip Rodney’s shoulders to stay upright.

He’d expected Rodney to look smug, but he hadn’t expected him to be looking at John like he was a shiny new jet engine, a hot bath and a plate of Swedish almond cookies all rolled into one.  

“What did you think of that?” Rodney asked earnestly, face open and hopeful.  In answer, John took the hand that was still wrapped loosely around his cock and lifted it to his mouth.  His eyes never leaving Rodney, he darted out his tongue and started licking Rodney’s hand clean.

Rodney’s mouth opened on a soundless ‘oh’ and a shiver traveled through his body.  Smiling, John closed his lips around Rodney’s index finger and sucked hard; Rodney groaned and squeezed his eyes shut.

Releasing Rodney’s finger with a pop, John bit the pad of his thumb and said, “I think it would be a good idea for you to take your clothes off now.”

Rodney didn’t need to be told twice; he took a staggering step back and started working frantically on his shirt buttons.  With John’s help, they had him naked in about a half a minute.  Rodney tried to pull him back into his arms, but John resisted, taking a moment to look at him while Rodney squirmed and blushed.  Rodney was solid and lightly furred, his skin almost translucent in places.  His arms and shoulders were broad and powerful from working on his planes, and his cock was dark and flushed, jutting proud from his belly.

“Lie down,” John rasped.  Rodney’s cock jumped and he stumbled back and fell on the nearest bed. Climbing up with him, John positioned himself between Rodney’s legs.  When he eased them wider, Rodney’s mouth opened, then slammed shut.

“Don’t worry,” John said softly.  “All you have to do is tell me and I’ll stop.”

Rodney shook his head stubbornly.  “I trust you,” he murmured.

And before he could think too hard about that, John bowed his head and licked a broad stripe up the underside of Rodney’s cock.  

“Oh, my God,” Rodney breathed, his head hitting the pillow.

John lapped up the length for long minutes until Rodney was pleading, his toes curled into the comforter.  When he could feel Rodney practically vibrating with excitement, he reached up to cup Rodney’s balls at the same moment he closed his lips around the head.  Rodney shouted and thrashed; John gripped Rodney’s hip with his free hand and pinned him to the mattress as best he could.

“Oh, John, you’re just, that’s so, I can’t believe you, please please please don’t stop—”

John’s answer to that was swirl his tongue around the tip of Rodney’s cock before taking it as deeply as he could.  He felt the head hit the back of his throat, and then Rodney was babbling and coming, hips lifting off the mattress as though they too were yearning to fly.  John let him go this time, let Rodney arch skyward, back bowed taut, let Rodney drive his cock so deep it almost gagged him, let Rodney finally fall back to Earth while John kept him safe, gentling the crash as best he could.

“So what did you think of _that_?” John enquired as nonchalantly as he could manage.

Rodney opened his still-shaking arms in response; John hesitated for a split second before crawling up the bed.  He hovered over Rodney while Rodney’s hands roamed over his face, his arms, his shoulders, his hair.  John had never been petted _after _sex before, but now that he was trying it he had to admit it felt pretty good.  

“What, um,” Rodney said quietly, pressing his lips against the underside of John’s jaw as John settled beside him, “what exactly _was_—that?”

John grinned.  “Among my people, that is known as a ‘blow job’.”  He felt Rodney sigh into his neck in exasperation.

“Do all Americans mock their lovers like this, or is it just you?”

Since John’s brain had stopped working when Rodney called them _lovers_, it took him several seconds to respond.  “Oh, it’s an epidemic in the States,” he finally managed.  “Most of the country’s quit having sex completely.  The rest of us just take some adhesive tape and—”

“Shhhh.”  Rodney brushed a thumb over John’s lips.  “Stop talking now.” Then he leaned in and kissed John softly, with an intensity completely out of proportion to its sweetness.  John tried to deepen the kiss, but Rodney frustrated him, pulling back, keeping it maddeningly light.

Long after Rodney was snoring beside him, John lay in the dark, rubbing his own fingers over his lips.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
The next day they set out early, not wanting to waste valuable traveling time, though John had to admit he’d been severely tempted.  The sight of Rodney McKay’s pale, naked ass in the morning light was definitely inspiring, but when he’d reached for it Rodney had laughed and slapped his hand away.  

“What are you thinking about?”

John glanced over at Rodney, who was studying him with a puzzled expression.  It struck John that since everything Rodney felt was written all over his face the moment he felt it, you’d always knew where you stood with him.  Considering he’d always looked for the thrill of uncertainty, the fact he was now attracted to that kind of security surprised him.

Of course, since he was about as likely to tell Rodney any of this as he was to sprout wings, he said, “I was thinking about your ass.”

John waited a count of three, then glanced over again to find Rodney’s cheeks bright red.  His mouth was fighting a pleased smile, curling at the edges.  “You like my – ass, do you?”

“First thing I noticed about you.”

Rodney snorted.  “You’re such a charmer.”

John grinned.  “You seemed pretty charmed last night, as I recall.”

When Rodney didn’t answer right away, John glanced over at him and caught an expression on Rodney’s face that could only be described as _fond_.  It swiftly faded as soon as Rodney realized he was being watched.  “Well.  I suppose I – you see, it’s been a while since – well, that is to—”

“Rodney,” John said, interrupting the painful babbling, “it’s been a while for me, too.”  

Rodney made a derisive noise.  “That’s very kind of you, but it’s highly unlikely that your – drought – has been as long as mine.”

“Well, now that you've broadened your horizons, I’m sure you’ll have shorter dry spells.”  John could hear the bite in his voice, but had no idea what had caused it.  They’d had sex, it had been fun and mutually satisfying, and no one had gotten hurt.  What right did he have to complain?

Rodney obviously had picked up on John’s tone, too, because his face darkened before he said, “It wasn’t some sort of experiment in 'broadening my horizons'.  Not for me.”  He clapped his mouth shut, as if to keep himself from saying exactly what it _had _been.

John ignored the warmth that seemed determined to spread through his limbs at McKay’s quietly impassioned statement.  “Well, uh,” he said, clearing his throat.  “Thanks.  But you know, there’s nothing wrong with two men sharing a mutual love of…experimentation.  For instance, there’s this experiment I’ve been thinking about trying out with you tonight.”

This time, the curve of Rodney’s wide mouth was decidedly wicked.  John felt the warmth pool low in his belly.  “Does this experiment happen to involve my ass?” Rodney asked innocently.

John pointed a finger at him.  “You _are _a genius.”

Rodney rolled his eyes at him, but the smile persisted for the next five miles.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
They stopped on the west side of Oklahoma City when Rodney complained he was about to pass out from hunger.  The diner was one of those places that advertised “home cooking” but mainly delivered food coated in the leavings from the grill.  The eggs were swimming in bacon fat and the toast wasn’t much better, but that didn’t seem to deter Rodney; he devoured his breakfast as if it was a five dollar steak dinner.

Rodney must have felt John’s gaze on him, because he looked up between bites of jam-laden toast.  “Wht?” he grunted, mouth half-full.

John batted his eyelashes.  “Just speculating on the fleeting nature of romance.”

Rodney looked away, his expression turning uncharacteristically blank.   He swallowed his toast and washed it down with an almost dainty sip of coffee.

John frowned.  “Rodney…”

Rodney shook his head.  He stared at the last bit of egg on his plate, then shoved at it with his fork.  

“What did I say?”

“Nothing.  I know you’re only joking.”  He speared the egg and half a slice of bacon, then popped them both into his mouth.  “It’s just that that line has been said to me in one form or another a few too many times for me to find it funny.”  He shoved back his chair and stood.  “I’ll go and pay the bill.”

“Here,” John said, digging in his jacket, “it’s my turn—”

“You can get it next time,” Rodney said, holding up a hand before turning away.  John was left with a mind racing a mile a minute and no idea what it was running toward.

The conclusion he finally came up with hit him hard.  Rodney had obviously experienced rejection and failed relationships – hell, who hadn’t? – but at least some of John’s old flames had some good memories associated with them.  It sounded like the good memories from Rodney’s past love affairs wouldn’t fill a thimble.   

And in a few days when they were in Nevada and this was all a memory, how would Rodney think of their – whatever this was –  then?  For that matter, how would he?  As a little bit of fun to take the edge off, a distraction?  

Or would it turn out to be one of those things that nagged at him late at night, like the image of Sumner’s haggard, pleading face?

Pushing the disturbing thoughts aside, he looked up – and into the piercing green eyes of the woman at the next table.  When he smiled and nodded, her eyes widened, then dropped.  Leaving half her breakfast on the table, she stood abruptly and hurried off down the hall toward the facilities.

John frowned.  Did he look like some kind of masher?  He felt his face; no, he’d remembered to shave this morning.  As casually as he could, he glanced around the diner.

His heart started pounding when he discovered about half the restaurant seemed to be either actively looking at him or actively trying _not _to look at him.  The other half was doing the same with McKay.

Slowly, he stood and made his way over to the counter, where the girl behind it was staring at Rodney like he was Frankenstein’s monster.  “Have you noticed something strange?” John asked Rodney quietly.

“No, of course not, because I’m completely oblivious to my surroundings,” Rodney snapped.  He took his change from the waitress and placed a dime in her trembling hand.  “You wouldn’t happen to have today’s paper, would you?” he asked her.  She stared at him mutely for another moment, then pointed to a wire rack at the end of the counter.  

“What were you saying about being oblivious?” John murmured.

“Shut up.”  Rodney dropped another nickel on the counter, snatched a paper out of the rack and spun on his heel.  John followed, feeling the accusing gazes of everyone in the restaurant boring into the back of his skull as he went.

When he started the car, he made sure to make a screeching U-turn in full view of the diner.

“What are you doing?” Rodney demanded.  “We’re going the wrong way!”

“Thanks for the tip,” John drawled.  “When they call the cops – if they haven’t already – I want them reporting we were headed east.”  He reduced his speed, then turned onto a side street when they were far enough down the road not to be seen.  

“Oh.  You’re doubling back.  Good thinking.”

“Thank you,” John drawled.  

There was a frantic rustling of paper, then a hushed, “Oh, no.”

“What?”

“Both of our pictures – God, that’s a terrible one of me, and the one of you looks a few years old, but we’re definitely recognizable.  And the caption reads:  _Have You Seen These Men?_”    

“That’s never a good caption,” John sighed.

“Oh, for—” McKay spluttered.  “They’re saying we’re wanted for questioning concerning three murders in Canada.”

“Doubtless true,” John said reasonably.  

“It also says that anyone who’s seen us should contact the Federal Bureau of Investigation immediately.”  Rodney stared at him in horror.  “Oh, my God.  We’re being hunted by the G-Men.”

“We have crossed state lines.”

“Will you stop being so blasé about this?” Rodney snapped.  “This is very, very bad.”

“Is there a description of the car in there?”

There was a pause as Rodney scanned the paper.  “No.”

“That means we have a day, at least.  I’m going to bet that not a lot of gas station attendants out in the sticks have read today’s paper.  So as long as we keep driving, we might make it to Albuquerque before we have to ditch the car.”

“What’s in Albuquerque?”

“I’m not sure,” John said.  “I’m hoping a friend.  But it’s been a while; I hope I can still find him.”  He checked behind him; nothing.  He turned onto a back street parallel to the main street, restoring them to their original heading.  “Can you sleep?”

“What?  You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Well, I want to keep going through the night, so one of us has to get some shut-eye.  As soon as we’re far enough out of town, you can take over the driving for a while.”

“How can you just—” Rodney flailed at him “—take a _nap _at a time like this?”

John thought back half a lifetime, suddenly remembering when he’d said something very similar to a fellow pilot who’d been determined to get some desperately needed sleep in the middle of a German artillery barrage.  

“I’ll count on you to wake me up when it gets really exciting,” John said.  

Judging by the expletive that followed, John figured Rodney didn’t find that answer any more reassuring than he had.

  


    
    
    
 

**Chapter Eight**

 

A day and a night of non-stop driving didn’t do anything to improve Rodney’s mood, and it sure as hell didn’t do anything for the poor old Ford.  Figuring they’d need a fair amount of water crossing the arid territory of northern Texas and eastern New Mexico, John had bought three five-gallon water cans early in the trip.  The car used up the last drop when they were a hundred miles from Albuquerque.  By the time they reached the outskirts of town near dawn, steam was rising from the hood.

“Dammit, dammit, dammit!”  Rodney’s fingers clenched the wheel with a death grip.  “There has to be a gas station around here somewhere.”

John shook his head.  “I don’t think we should stop so close to town.  We should be able to make it to my friend’s shop before the engine blows.”

“Oh, that’s supposed to reassure me?” Rodney bit out.  “What if your friend isn’t where you think he is?”

“Then we’ll have to think of another plan.”

“No, no, no, we should be thinking about another plan _now_.  Now, before the first one falls through.”

“Optimistic, aren’t you?”

“I’m a realist.  Very little seems to have gone right for us so far.”

“Come on, what are you talking about?  We’ve had great luck.”

Rodney stared at him open-mouthed.  “Obviously we have not been on the same trip.”

John pointed out the windshield.  “Watch the road.”

The car twitched slightly to the left as Rodney steered the car back on course.  “Sorry, sorry.  I’m exhausted, I’m starving and I’m heartily sick of being chased by bad people.”

“G-men aren’t really bad people.  But don’t worry, I’m sure they’re combing Memphis for us right now.  Oh, hey, great.”  He pointed to a sign welcoming them to Albuquerque.  “We made it.”

As soon as he said that, the car spluttered dangerously; Rodney pumped the gas and the engine caught just before it died completely.  “Please stop talking.  You’re jinxing the car.”

John patted the dashboard.  “Just a few more miles, baby.  Just a few more.”

“And don’t try to charm it, either.”

“Works for you,” John said archly.

Whether influenced by his charm or not, the car did bring them all the way to their destination, a small general store on the main street.  John directed Rodney to park the car in the back alley so that it wouldn’t be as conspicuous, then walked around the front and stepped in.  

There was a young Navajo woman behind the counter; immediately, John relaxed.  “Excuse me,” he said, smiling, “Is Halling here?”

She looked him up and down, obviously unimpressed by the smile.  “Who wants to know?” she asked.

“I’m an old friend of his.  My name’s—”

“John Sheppard.”

John blinked.  Okay, that _hadn’t _been him.

“And Doctor Rodney McKay.”

_Oh, shit, _thought John.  

“Turn around, please,” the gravely voice said.  Beside him, Rodney immediately obeyed.

“What’s in it for me if I do?” John drawled.  

“I might not shoot you,” the voice drawled back.  John actually debated for a split second.  His pack was slung over his shoulder, but the Browning he’d gotten off of Shorty was jammed way down in the bottom.  Even if the guy was a G-man, he probably didn’t have a lot of problems with shooting a guy who resisted.

“John, please turn around,” Rodney said.

John turned to see a guy who didn’t look much like a Fed; in fact, he looked more like somebody who might show up on a wanted poster himself.  He was stocky and hawk-eyed, and his face was pockmarked and expressionless.  His gun hand was steady.

John raised his hands slowly.  

“That’s better,” the guy said, smiling thinly.  

“Are you a G-man?” Rodney blurted.

“Rodney,” John sighed.

“Not exactly,” the guy said.  “Let’s just say I’m an interested party.  Kolya’s the name.”

John’s gut roiled as he looked into Rodney’s horrified face.  He knew exactly what he was thinking; with the FBI, they at least had a chance.  But if this guy was a Nazi, or somehow affiliated with them, they were royally screwed.  “Interested party, huh?  Would that be Democrat or Republican?” John asked.

“Neither, I’d guess,” Rodney muttered.  

“Do not try my patience,” Kolya said.  “I’m not known for my patience.”  John watched him closely, but the aim of the gun barrel didn’t stray from the middle of John’s chest.

“Look, maybe we can make a deal,” Rodney said.  “I have lots of money, and if that’s not enough for you, I know people who have more.”

“That would seem to be a very attractive offer,” Kolya said.  “However, my alliance with the police would be very swiftly dissolved if I took every rich criminal up on his offer.”

“We’re not criminals!” Rodney exclaimed.

“Wait a minute,” John said.  “Alliance with the police?”  Suddenly everything fell into place.  “He’s not a Nazi.  He’s a bounty hunter.”

Rodney gaped at them both.  “A – what?  How – how did you know where to find us?”

“I tracked you from Oklahoma City.  That fake to the east was enough to fool the Feds, but I found it somewhat amateurish.  If you’d planned on heading east, you could have taken much shorter routes from Toronto.”

John made a face.  “Sorry.  I’m not a very experienced criminal.”

“After that it was just a matter of hopping a plane to Albuquerque and waiting for you to come chugging down the road.”  

Rodney sighed.  “I suppose it wouldn’t do any good to tell you we’re on a mission of national, and possibly world importance, with far-reaching consequences for the future of humanity?”

“We are?” John asked.  Rodney nodded.  “You never told me that.”

Kolya only shook his head.  “I’m sorry.  It’s not personal.”

“Well, I’m afraid this is,” said a voice from the other end of the store.

John looked up to see his old friend Halling, his hair as long as ever, standing in a doorway at the back of the shop, his Model 92 raised to his shoulder and trained on the back of Kolya’s skull.  “If you’d like to continue your no doubt successful career, I suggest you drop your weapon.  The man you’re threatening once saved my son, and if you harm him it will be my pleasure to kill you.”

As Kolya slowly lowered his pistol to the ground, Rodney stared at John as if he didn’t recognize him.  “You’ll have to tell me the story of your life sometime,” he said.

John winced as he kicked the pistol out of Kolya’s reach.  “I don’t know.  I’ve invested a lot of effort in forgetting as much of it as I can.”

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
Halling loaded another canteen of water in John’s pack while Rodney stuffed a warm wool blanket into his newly provided canvas bag.  “Maria will take you as far as she can.  After that it is a little over a day’s journey north to the settlement.”

“Why can’t she take us all the way?” Rodney asked.  Maria – the young woman who ran the shop with Halling – was out filling the truck.  Later, she and Halling would dispose of the Model A.

“Because the road ends just as you enter the reservation,” Halling explained.  “John, are you sure this is the best way?  We can take you where you need to go.”

“That guy – ” John inclined his head to indicate Kolya, who was currently tied up in Halling’s office “ – is actually one of the nicer people who’s tried to stop us.  Even asking you to do this for me is—”

“Do not finish that sentence,” Halling said, laying a strong hand on John’s shoulder.  “I owe you everything, John.  But do you think you can restore it completely?  My people have repaired the fabric and the frame, but the engine is another matter.”

“Rodney here is one of the foremost geniuses of the aviation industry,” John said, grinning.  At that, Rodney looked up from where he was fretting over Halling’s meager selection of hardware.  

“Yes, well, even a genius cannot work without the proper tools,” he sniffed.  “And you say we have to haul all of this in on foot?  What about gas?”

“They’re running a Liberty generator up there for the school and the clinic,” John said.  “Which is fueled by—”

Rodney nodded.  “Avgas.”

“Right.  So, have you got everything you need?”

Rodney stared morosely at the assortment of wrenches, hoses and parts he’d picked out.  “I miss my workshop.”

John patted him on the arm.  “I know you do.”

“So let me see if I’ve got this right,” Rodney said, ticking points off on his fingers.  “We are going to hike through the unforgiving desert wilderness for a day and a half, where without the slightest prior knowledge of what it might need and with completely inadequate tools, I am going to fix a twenty-year old biplane, which has not been working for over two years, and which was crashed into the _ground_, I might add—”

“Hey, it was a _controlled _crash—”

“—and make it capable of flying two hundred and fifty miles, when its range is at best—”

John held up a hand.  “Let’s think positive, shall we?”

Rodney regarded him darkly.  “Why not?”  He turned to Halling.  “I don’t suppose you have any fairy dust out back, by any chance?  Maybe a magic wand?  No?”

“_Rod_ney.”  John stepped forward, took Rodney’s face between his palms and kissed him soundly.  When he drew back, he found Rodney flushed and wide-eyed.  John decided it was a good look for him.

“Wh-what was that for?” Rodney stammered.

“To shut you up,” John said simply.  Before Rodney could blow up at that, John kissed him again, more softly this time.

“And that one,” John murmured, “is to remind you we’re still in this together.”  

Rodney blinked at him a few times, then finally cleared his throat and said, “Well.  I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to…look on the bright side?”  He looked so pained as he said it that John was torn between laughing and kissing him again.  

Instead, he slid a thumb over Rodney’s lips briefly, enjoying the way Rodney’s breath cooled his skin.  “What do you say we finish packing, huh?”

Rodney nodded mutely, his gaze never leaving John’s face, and John wondered for approximately the hundredth time what the hell he was getting himself into.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
Maria dropped them off at the end of the road in the early afternoon, and they spent the remainder of the available daylight following the mostly dried-up riverbed that ran along the base of the Chuska Mountains.  It wasn’t the safest location, since flash floods were common in this area, but Halling had assured him there was no rain expected in the area for the next few days, and John believed him.  It was a much easier walk than the treacherously steep slopes above; better to climb those at the end, when they could take them fresh in the morning.

When the sun was close to setting, John began looking for a likely shelter.  He found one in a small opening in the rock face just big enough for the two of them to sit up in comfortably.  Lighting a stray piece of driftwood, he swept it into the cave.

“What are you doing?” Rodney asked, peering over his shoulder.

“Checking for rattlesnakes,” John told him.  Rodney jumped back about three feet.  Smirking, John finished his inspection.  “All clear.”

“Thank God,” Rodney said heartily.  “Are there any other deadly creatures around here I should know about?”

“Try to avoid sitting on the cactus over there,” John instructed.  Rodney grumbled under his breath as he began searching for more driftwood to make a fire.

By the time darkness fell, they had a warm fire going just outside the small cave, on which John warmed one of the cans of stew Halling had provided.  

“So what’s the story of you and Halling’s son?” Rodney asked as he ate.

John studied his plate.  “When I landed here, I wasn’t too keen to rejoin the world for a while.  The only thing I figured I could count on was my plane, and that was pretty much wrecked when I crashed on the reservation.  Halling and the Navajo took me in for a couple of months.  I owe them my life.”

Rodney cocked his head at him.  “You’re not going to tell me,” he said softly.  It wasn’t a question.

John shrugged.  Reaching for a handful of fine gravel and sand, he used it to clean his plate.  “Not much to tell.  He went exploring on the mesa and got lost, we went searching, I was the first to find him.  Whatever Halling might think, I’m no hero, Rodney.”  When he rose to his feet, Rodney watched him for a moment, then set down his dinner, stood and walked over to him, holding his gaze the entire time.  

“You wouldn’t like a second opinion on that, would you?” Rodney murmured.  One hand rose to cup John’s cheek, and John shivered at the look he saw in Rodney’s eyes.

Rodney’s mouth was three inches from John’s when John felt his own rusty instinct for self-preservation kick in.  It made perfect sense, really; Rodney needed a hero, and he’d decided to cast John in the role.  He’d never been in a life or death situation like this, and he was attracted to the image of John he’d constructed in his head, the image he needed to get himself through this.

_No_, John thought, rebelling.  _I won’t be your hero.  Goddammit, I can’t._

“Rodney, this isn’t a good – time,” he said, ignoring the flash of disappointment and confusion in Rodney’s eyes as he pulled back.  He closed his eyes, forcing his thoughts into acceptable channels.  There was nothing to be gained by thinking about McKay’s capable, workman’s hands, about his gift for making the most beautiful planes John had ever flown and his lopsided mouth and his wide, genuine smile.  And no way in hell was there anything to be gained from remembering how that mouth had felt on his skin—

“John?”

John sighed.  “Rodney.  We really need to get some rest.”

He could feel the heat of Rodney’s gaze burning into him, and silently prayed that Rodney keep his hands to himself, because he wouldn’t be able to hold back if Rodney touched him again, he’d just grab him and have him right there on the ground, rocks and rattlesnakes be damned—

“Right.  Of course.  Sorry,” McKay murmured.  And then there were no more words as they laid out the blankets Halling had given them and settled into the small cave for the night.

Just as John had suspected, sleep was a long time coming, even after he heard Rodney’s breathing finally even out.

    
    
    
 

**Chapter Nine**

 

“I hate to suggest this yet again, but—”

“It’s just over the next rise,” John interrupted.

“That’s what you said an hour ago,” Rodney grumbled.

“Well, this time I mean it,” John retorted.  Rodney had been at him since they woke up to go back the way they had came and try their luck on the highway; the only way John had been able to convince him to stick with the plan was to tell him they were almost to the settlement.  Then if he looked at the plane and it was unsalvageable, they’d consider plan B, whatever the hell that turned out to be.

He realized belatedly that Rodney was no longer walking beside him.  Turning, he saw the other man standing about twenty yards back, glaring at him, his arms crossed.

“You lied.”

“I underestimated,” John sighed.  “There’s a difference.”

“I’m going back with or without you,” Rodney snapped, spinning on his heel and walking back down the slope.

John ran to catch him.  “Dammit, Rodney,” he said, grabbing his arm, “There is nothing wrong with this plan.  You’ll fix the plane, I’ll fly it, and that’ll be—” Rodney’s wide-eyed gaze took some of the wind from his sails “—that.”

“This is a _terrible _plan,” Rodney maintained stubbornly.  “I don’t have enough words to tell you how terrible it is.”

“So why are you telling me this now?” John demanded.  “Why didn’t you dig your heels in yesterday in Albuquerque?”

Rodney lifted his chin defensively.  “Because – because – never mind!”  

This time John crossed his arms.  “This is about last night, isn’t it?”

Rodney rolled his eyes.  “Don’t be so conceited.  I just had some time to think, that’s all.”  He looked away.  “That’s not to say I don’t appreciate everything you’ve done.  You’ve gone above and beyond—”

“All right,” John said, holding up a hand to forestall Rodney’s painful attempt at a brush-off, “then if you’re going back, I’m going back.”

Rodney shook his head.  “I’ve thought this through.  It’s my fault you’re a fugitive, but once I get to Nevada I can have you cleared.  When that happens, I’ll get word to you.  In the meantime, you can stay here with your friends.”

John bristled.  “You don’t need to protect me.  I’ve been in worse scrapes.”

“I’m sure you have,” Rodney muttered.  “But I wasn’t responsible for any of those.”

“What happens if you get arrested on the way to Nevada?” John persisted.  “By now that highway is probably crawling with cops.”

“I’ll hitch a ride.”

John snorted.  “Cops search vehicles.  And truckers read newspapers like everybody else.”

“I’ll travel on foot.  At night.”

“In the high desert,” John said incredulously.  “Alone.”

“Goddammit!” Rodney exclaimed, throwing up his hands.  “All right!  I don’t want to be responsible for killing you when we crash and die in a flaming wreck!  Not when you – when you’ve made it painfully clear you don’t—”

“Don’t what?” John asked softly.

Rodney’s jaw clenched convulsively.  “Never mind!”

“Rodney,” John said.  He found himself stepping forward, drawn by an inexplicable urge to ease Rodney’s brittle stance.  “I’m sorry.”

Rodney’s brows drew together.  “You’re sorry.  For what?”  

“For…” John took a deep breath.  “For the other night.  At the motor court.”

Rodney stared at him, horrified.  “Oh, no.  No, no, no, no, no.  You are _not _going to cast me in the role of poor deflowered maiden.”

John opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

This time Rodney was the one to advance on John, stepping into his personal space and jabbing him in the chest with a finger.  “All right, fine, you’re quite skilled, but you’re also my first man.  There are probably lots of men out there who are much better at blow jobs than you are.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” John drawled.

“Don’t interrupt me!  My point is that you don’t have to worry that I’m under any…illusions…about the other night.  It was sex.  It was – lovely.  But it was just sex.”

John looked down to find Rodney’s finger still digging into his breastbone.  He looked up into Rodney’s clear blue eyes and his heart stuttered in his chest.

“Lovely?” John rasped.

Rodney’s hand curled into a fist. John’s hand shot out, captured it before it could withdraw and pulled it back against him.

“‘Lovely’ and ‘just sex’ don’t go together, Rodney,” John murmured, while inside his head a voice was asking him what the _hell _he thought he was doing.  

“Yes, well,” Rodney said, jaw clenching, “I’ll remember that when I move on to my next conquest.”  

And it was a measure of how fucked up John was that even though he knew Rodney was intentionally being sarcastic, he still wanted to punch Rodney’s completely imaginary future boyfriend’s lights out.

Rodney shot a pointed glance at their intertwined hands.  “Aren’t you a little confused?”

“Yeah,” John admitted, voice ragged.  He couldn’t seem to stop looking at Rodney’s mouth.

Rodney sighed.  His fingers opened, splaying themselves across John’s chest.  “Well, I wish you’d stop it, because you’re confusing me, too.”

“Yeah,” John agreed, closing the distance between them.  “Sorry about that.”

Rodney leaned forward and brushed his lips against John’s.  “Stop being sorry and—”

“John?  Is that you?”

John looked up to see none other than Teyla Emmagen herself standing thirty feet above them at the top of the ridge, her hands on her hips and her smile wider than a Southwestern sky.

Trying to decide whether he was pissed off or relieved to see her right then was a philosophical question that was beyond him at the moment, so he concentrated on matching her smile and raising her ten.  In a matter of seconds she was down on their level and launching herself into his arms.  He could feel the weight of Rodney’s glare as he hugged her back, but he concentrated on ignoring that too.

“Come,” Teyla said when she let him go, smiling at both of them.  “There are many people who will be very pleased to see you.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Rodney murmured, low enough so that only John could hear.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
Teyla’s people might not have the tools to fix a Jenny’s engine, but they sure knew how to make her the most beautiful bird in the sky.  

When John had landed he’d not only busted the landing gear, he’d torn the hell out of the lower wing, smashing the frame and ripping the fabric to shreds.  But today the Jenny stood on two good wheels, her undercarriage perfectly restored.  More amazingly, the wing surface had been painstakingly reconstructed, the frame replicated and the canvas replaced by fabric painted in strong reds and blacks.

“We were thinking of Thunderbird when we created this,” Teyla said, skimming her hand lightly along the intricate designs.  “It seemed to fit you.”  

John heard a barked laugh from the cockpit rise above the chatter of the children as they ran and played around the airplane.

“What’s so damned funny?” he demanded.

Rodney poked his head up over the fuselage.  He had a streak of grease down his nose that John resolutely tried not to find charming.  “Likening a Jenny to something called a ‘thunderbird’ is like comparing a sardine to a great white shark.  They’re not exactly in the same league.”

“Says you,” John shot back.  Rodney rolled his eyes and disappeared again.

Teyla arched an eyebrow at him.  John shrugged.  “Sorry.  Rodney’s not what you’d call…uh, spiritually minded.”

She only smiled and patted his arm.  “I know someone who fits that description as well.”

“Hey, I’m spiritual!” John protested.  “I just…well, it doesn’t always show.”

“True,” Teyla allowed, looking at him consideringly.  “It is evident in your attitude toward certain things.”  She glanced toward the cockpit.  “And certain people.”

John studied the low rise of the buildings in the distance.  “Yeah, well, let’s just keep that our little secret.”

Jinto ran up to him then, and John was surprised yet again at how much he’d grown in two years.  Privately, he admitted he was also pretty damned surprised – and touched – at how happy the boy was to see him after all this time.  

“Will you take me up in the wooden bird when it is ready to fly?” Jinto asked eagerly.  

Teyla laughed and hugged Jinto with one arm.  “He has talked of becoming a pilot since you left,” she said.  “He says all the great warriors of the future will live in the sky.”

John looked down at Jinto – not so far down now – and his blood ran cold, because God, it was like looking in a mirror from twenty years ago.  “I knew lots of warriors,” John rasped, “but they didn’t live in the sky, they died in it.  They died screaming, on fire, shot full of holes…”  He shook himself when he registered the shocked faces staring back at him.

“But you are a warrior,” Jinto said hesitantly after a moment.  “And you are still alive.”

“I’m no warrior,” John replied.  “I won’t argue with you about the second part.”  He shook his head.  “I’m sorry, Jinto.  I can’t take you up in the bird.  Not now.”  He clenched his jaw.  “Maybe not ever.”

Jinto nodded solemnly, then walked away to join his friends.  John felt like he’d been punched in the gut.

Leaning toward him, Teyla touched her forehead to John’s gently.  “We will see you for the evening meal.”  And with that, she turned and walked back toward the village behind the children.

“Congratulations.”

John looked up to see Rodney looking down at him with a pissy expression.  “What for?” he snapped.

“You’ve single-handedly ended the ages-old practice of young men going off and doing stupid things in the name of heroism,” Rodney said acidly.  “That deserves some recognition.”

“Fuck off,” John gritted.  

Rodney reeled for a moment from that, but recovered swiftly.  He stood up, then maneuvered himself out of the cockpit and onto the ladder.  “Yes, very mature,” he sighed as he descended.

“You don’t know anything about it, Rodney,” John growled.  “And in three or four years, when that kid is the same age as I was when I joined up, something tells me there’s gonna be a fresh new war for him to go die in.”

“And that, like most of the other things you seem eager to blame yourself for, will also _not be your fault_,” Rodney insisted.  He stepped closer, an unreadable look in his eyes, and John resisted the urge to run.  “Just like it wasn’t your fault you survived when others didn’t.”

“You weren’t there,” John snapped.

Rodney’s expression hardened.  “No, I wasn’t.  I only had one brother killed at Vimy and another who came home from the Somme with both legs missing and a mind that had destroyed itself in self-defense.  He’s still in a sanatorium, by the way, because he keeps trying to kill himself, and we can’t let that happen, can we?  I’m supposed to visit him tomorrow – he’s going to be disappointed when I don’t come, even though he never remembers who the hell I am from one week to the next.”

John blew out a breath.  “Rodney, I’m—”

“Don’t you dare say you’re sorry again,” Rodney bit out.  “You’ve got nothing to be sorry _for_, goddammit.”  He jerked his thumb back toward the plane.  “This bucket of bolts is salvageable; the airframe is sound, at least, and there are no vital mechanical parts damaged or missing.  But I have to purge the congealed oil and sand out of the engine, and I need you to help me with that.”

John decided it would be best just to nod, so he did.  Rolling up his sleeves, he followed Rodney back to the plane and awaited instructions.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
The evening meal was lavish, even for Navajo gatherings.  John tried his best to take it for the honor it was meant to be, but inside his gut was roiling and he had to force down every bite.  After laboring over the Jenny’s engine for most of the day, though, Rodney claimed that he’d worked up a powerful appetite, and he more than made up for any lack of enthusiasm John might have conveyed.  The Navajo liked a person with a healthy appetite, but John was willing to bet they’d never seen a guy with an appetite quite as healthy as Rodney’s.

He was watching Rodney plow through his fourth baked corn on the cob when he realized he was probably in love with him.  That was kind of a weird time for him to make such a discovery, but hey, it had been a really long week, and at least the revelation hadn’t come afterward, when Rodney spent a good twenty minutes picking the remainder of his meal out of his teeth.  Now _that _would have been something to worry about.

When they were sitting around the dying fires, Teyla turned to him, squeezed his hand and said, “You are on a difficult journey.  But it will soon be at an end.”

John tried for a smile, but knew he was probably unsuccessful.  “I hope the end doesn’t come with us in a twisted heap of wood and cloth.”

Teyla shook her head.  “No.  But you will face danger in the future – if you choose to.  That path may take your life, but it is the more glorious one.”

John studied the fire.  “Well, you know me.  I’ve never been big on glory.”

“I know you, yes,” Teyla said archly.  John looked back at her to find her watching him more closely than he might like.  She’d always been uncannily good at sniffing out his secrets, the things he wanted to stay buried.  

_And she’s not the only one now,_ John thought.

“‘If I choose to,’” he repeated, frowning.  “How do I choose?”

Teyla smiled at him, her expression a strange combination of serenity and mischief.  “You will find a way,” she assured him.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
The small hogan he’d helped build and lived in on his last visit was still standing near the edge of the settlement.  The Navajo were slowly moving into permanent wood-frame structures, but there were still some people who preferred the old mud-and-stick construction even now.  He noticed that someone had painted the thunderbird motif on the door flap and around the top of the domed roof.

The fire outside had burned down to coals; remembering how cold it could get up here on the plateau at night, John brought a few of the glowing embers inside and placed them in the fire pit in the center of the round room.  There were plenty of wool blankets spread over a large pallet toward the back, and a small oil lantern hung from one of the framing poles.

Rodney groaned as he bent to pass through the low doorway, then groaned again as he slowly straightened.

“You going to survive?” John asked, amused in spite of his mood.

“Every part of me hurts,” Rodney complained.  “But feel free to mock me.”  He stretched tentatively; both of them winced when some piece of Rodney’s skeleton _cracked _loudly.

“We’ll have to take off at dawn,” John said, sitting down on the edge of the pallet and toeing off his shoes.  “Once the sun starts to heat the Canyon, the air currents are a bitch.”

Rodney perched on the other end of the pallet and removed his own shoes, though the process seemed a lot more painful for him.  John could practically feel the tension in his every muscle from four feet away, feel the ache in Rodney’s body as if it were his own.

_Or maybe it’s your ache, not his, _John thought.  He drew his knees up and rested his elbows on them.  God, he was tired, so tired of all of it.  “You mind telling me where we’re headed tomorrow?  Or is that top secret?”

Rodney shot him a look.  “Boulder Dam,” he said.  “We’re going to Boulder Dam.”

John nodded.  “Okay,” he said, mentally calculating the distance.  Yeah, Rodney had been right – that was at the edge of the Jenny’s range.  Oh well, they’d get within twenty miles of it, at least.  

“So what, um,” Rodney began.  He took a deep breath, then another.  “What do you think is fair payment for—” He waved a hand and John’s already unsteady gut dove south.  “For everything you’ve – done?”

“You fixed my plane,” John murmured, amazed he could still speak.  “Why don’t we call it even?”

“That hardly seems f—”

“Look, just—” John shook his head.  “Just don’t go there, McKay.  We each got something out of this trip.  I’ll take you where you need to go, and then—”

“That’ll be that?” Rodney said, throwing John’s earlier words back at him with surprising vehemence.  

John looked at his hands where they hung between his knees.  “Yeah.”

Silence reigned for what seemed like hours before McKay said in a soft voice, “What if I don’t want that to be – that?”

John turned to him slowly.  Astonishment wasn’t what he was feeling, but then there wasn’t a word to describe what he was feeling, so that would have to do.

Rodney shifted closer on the pallet.  “Say something.”

John went very still; every part of him felt heavy, anchored to earth.  “You’re crazy,” he murmured.

“I’m painfully aware of that,” Rodney told him, moving closer.  

“Look,” John said, trying to gather the shreds of his reason, “you’ve had a really tough week.  A lot’s happened to you, and you—”

Rodney’s fingers trailed across his cheek, cupped his jaw tenderly.  John shut his eyes.  “I’m not what you want.”

“How extraordinary of you to know what I want better than I do,” McKay muttered.

John’s eyes flew open.  “Dammit, I’m trying to tell you – whatever you’re seeing – it’s not _there_.  It’s not me.”

Rodney cocked his head at him as though he’d just handed him a fascinating scientific problem.  After a moment, he frowned slightly and murmured, “You know, I don’t think you’re afraid that I don’t understand you.   I think you’re afraid that I _do_.”

“Rodney, I—”   But that was all he got out before Rodney’s mouth closed softly over his own.  Rodney moved his hand to the back of John’s neck, his fingers sliding into the hair at John’s nape, and something inside him loosened and slid away and he thought _fuck it _and leaned into the kiss, opening for Rodney’s mouth and Rodney’s breath and Rodney’s infuriating certainty, because anything else was unthinkable, as impossible as taking off in the morning and flying the Jenny straight to the nearest star.  

Rodney’s kisses were bright bursts of heat and sensation and John couldn’t get enough of them.  Rodney kissed him as though he were trying to tell John how much he wanted him, how much he wanted to do this right; he kissed him like he knew he wasn’t going to be able to keep him.  John kissed him back, but he was afraid to think about what his kisses were saying to Rodney.

Rodney gently but insistently pushed John onto his back and spent long minutes stripping him, his knife-sharp gaze trailing over John’s skin the whole time.  John was afraid to move under that gaze, because all it would take was one twitch, one small betrayal and he’d be slit open, secrets spilling out onto the blankets for Rodney to see.  Instead he folded his arms under his head and watched Rodney’s broad, capable hands work, watched them dance over his body the way they did over pistons and superchargers.

When he was completely naked Rodney took a moment to stare at him, his face shadowed in the weak lamplight.  John arched up under that intense gaze as though Rodney had touched him, and Rodney groaned low in his throat.  Swiftly, McKay skinned out of his clothes and settled down beside him.  

They rolled to face one another.  Rodney glided two fingers over the hollow of John’s throat, the line of his breastbone, the dark hair covering his belly, then lifted them and started all over again from his shoulder.  By the time he was on the fourth stroke, John was panting and hard and biting his lips to keep from begging for more.

“You’re so – beautiful,” Rodney murmured, his eyes following the motion of his fingers.  “I suppose you’ll think it odd, but I never thought that people could be.  A wing, a prop, a fuselage, those things are clean, elegant, graceful.  Their lines can be expressed mathematically.”  He swept his fingers over the curve of John’s shoulder and whispered,  “I wonder if there’s an equation for this.”  Another caress, this time mapping the jut of John’s hip.  “Or this.”

“Are you saying you want to fuck me because I’m aerodynamic?” John said, attempting a levity he didn’t feel in the slightest.

Rodney flushed and finally met John’s gaze, and John gasped at what he saw on McKay’s expressive face.  Then Rodney’s hand wrapped around his cock, and John gasped again.  

“I’m saying I should probably shut up,” McKay murmured, almost to himself.  “Luckily, you taught me a way to accomplish that.”

And just when John had convinced himself that Rodney couldn’t possibly be talking about what John thought he was talking about, Rodney’s face took on a grimly determined set, and then he slid down the bed, steadied John’s hip with his free hand and sucked the head of John’s cock into his mouth.

John felt all the breath leave his body.  When he inhaled again, the oxygen burned his lungs.  “Rodney,” he rasped, “you don’t have to—”  

Rodney released John’s cock with a _popping _sound and proceeded to deliver a series of wet, tonguing kisses down the length.  John groaned and flopped back onto the mattress, his brain blown by the sight and the feel of Rodney’s mouth on his dick.

Something tickled his balls and John’s eyes slammed shut.  

“You were saying?” Rodney drawled.

John flapped a boneless hand at him.  “Never mind.  Carry on.”

The next time John felt Rodney’s mouth, he could swear the bastard was smiling.  And you know, he didn’t have a problem with that, he really didn’t, because Rodney was gripping him in his solid fist and stroking his hip with knowing fingers and welcoming him inside over and over again so damned sweetly, as if John had known this home for years instead of minutes, that John couldn’t begrudge him a little well-deserved gloating.

Soon John’s hips began to move in small, mindless circles, and Rodney followed, Rodney understood, Rodney kept sucking him and touching him and then his hand traced the elliptical curve from the top of John’s hip to the cleft of his ass and John was coming, spilling into Rodney’s mouth while Rodney took it, took him, fucking took everything John had spent twenty years hiding from the world, from himself.

He wasn’t sure when he’d thrown an arm over his eyes, only knew when Rodney tugged it gently but insistently away.  Rodney’s lips brushed against John’s own and John actually jerked at the contact. He felt like someone had just gone over the surface of his entire body with a wire brush, and everything was too sensitive, too raw, too new.

He opened his eyes to see Rodney’s face hovering over him, hurt and confused, and he shook his head, unable to even begin to explain.  

“Please,” John managed.

Rodney frowned.  “Please what?”

It took every ounce of energy John had left in him to hold Rodney’s gaze.  “Fuck me,” he growled.

Rodney’s eyes widened so much they looked about to pop out of his head.  “I – that is, I don’t – ah—”

John rolled away and reached for his pack.  He returned in a few moments with the small jar of petroleum jelly from Halling’s store.  Rodney took it from his outstretched hand and stared at it as if he didn’t recognize the stuff.

When he stayed motionless, John pushed himself up on his elbows.  “If you don’t want to—”

“Oh, God,” Rodney breathed, gaze still locked on the jar.  “You have no idea how much I want to.”  His eyes rose.  “I’m just not sure why you—”

John hooked an arm around Rodney’s neck and pulled him down into a harsh, bruising kiss.  “I want to,” John murmured into his mouth.  “Don’t worry about why.”

“I always worry,” Rodney whispered, but he closed his eyes and leaned in and kissed him anyway, as though he couldn’t help himself any more than John could.  Shameless, John pushed his way into Rodney’s mouth, pushed past the edge of Rodney’s resistance and tore through it until Rodney was moaning and desperate and pushing back.  

_I could make you do anything to me,_ John thought, as one of Rodney’s long, strong fingers breached him.  _I could make you do this until there was nothing left of me._

Another finger and John writhed, flames licking at his skin.  “H-how?” Rodney rasped.  “How should I—”

John wrapped his legs around Rodney’s hips, and Rodney gasped and pressed his forehead to John’s shoulder.  “Jesus, okay, okay, just let me—”

“Hurry,” John pleaded.

Frantically, Rodney grabbed for one of the discarded blankets and bunched it up under John’s ass.  John raised his arms and gripped the top of the pallet as Rodney’s cock slid into him slowly, gradually stretching him, filling up the emptiness inside him in a way that was startling, despite the fact that he’d half expected it to be like this, to be exactly like this.  

John lifted his legs higher and Rodney groaned and kissed him, sloppy and wet.  “Am I hurting you?” he panted.

John shook his head, because there was pain, but not as much as there would have been if he’d never let himself have this.  “It’s good, it’s fine, keep going, come on—” and then Rodney gripped his ass and _lifted _and Rodney’s cock brushed that spot inside him and it was too soon, too soon, how was that even—

“Oh, my God, John, that’s—”  Rodney’s hips jerked helplessly, a staccato counterpoint to the long slow roll of John’s as he spent himself.  Within moments he was following John over, hands still holding John’s body open and weightless, suspended from strong arms.

Later, when the light had died and they’d curled up together under the blankets, Rodney fell asleep with his lips pressed to the arc of John’s shoulder, while John stayed awake as long as he could, lying in the temporary haven bounded by the warmth of Rodney’s body and the soft, even hiss of his breathing.

  


    
    
    
 

**Chapter Ten**

 

The sky was just beginning to lighten when a small group emerged from their hogans and gathered to see John and Rodney off.  While John finished his inspection of the Jenny’s fuselage and wings in a last pre-flight check, Rodney spoke with Teyla.

“If we don’t manage to deliver it ourselves,” he said, passing her a small piece of paper, “I’d appreciate it if you could ensure this message gets to a General Hammond of the Army Air Corps.  The address is printed on the back.”

Teyla nodded and turned the paper over in her hands.  “I will do as you wish.”  She glanced at the note and frowned.  “What form of writing is this?”

“It’s, uh, it’s a sort of code,” Rodney explained, and John knew right away from the tiny hesitation that he was lying.  “Secret military stuff, you know.”

As John completed his last check and walked over to join them, Teyla treated Rodney to a look that could only be termed ‘the fish eye.’  Turning her attention to the paper again, she began to read.

“‘The enemy has found the city of the Ancients at the bottom of the world.  Old foes awaken and join forces…’”

Rodney gaped at her.  “You’re not supposed to be able to read that.”

Teyla folded the paper carefully and tucked it into her tunic.  “The knowledge is slowly dying, but there are still a few who possess it and pass it on to their children.  My mother was one such person.”  She met Rodney’s gaze steadily.  “Do not worry, Doctor McKay.  Your secret is quite safe with me.”

John caught Rodney’s eye.  “Ready when you are.”

Rodney nodded; John turned to Teyla and wrapped his arms around her.  “Thank you,” he murmured, squeezing her tightly.

“Between friends, there is no need for thanks,” Teyla murmured, hugging him back.  “Good luck, John.”

“I don’t need luck.  I have the Thunderbird.”  When he released her, he turned and waved Jinto closer.  “Hey, kiddo.  Sorry about yesterday.”

“It’s all right,” Jinto said solemnly.  “I am afraid I still want to become a pilot, though.”

John hooked an arm around the boy’s shoulders and pulled him in close.  “You’re not the only one who’s afraid.  But I want you to be whatever you want to be, okay?  Just promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

“I will,” Jinto vowed.  John let him go, and the boy moved to the crank on the side of the engine to start the engine on John’s command.

When he and Rodney were both strapped in, John nodded to the boy, who turned the crank for all he was worth.   After a couple of spluttering starts the engine roared to life, and John gave a grinning Jinto the thumbs up.

His eyes might have watered a little at the cloud of oil and smoke that kicked back, but luckily his goggles kept anyone from seeing it.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
The Grand Canyon was dark and shadowed in the early morning light, but that didn’t stop Rodney from nearly leaning clear over the side of the plane to get a good look at it.  They didn’t have any throat mikes to communicate with one another, so John was reduced to waving his arm madly from the rear cockpit to try to get Rodney’s attention, then making furious hand gestures he hoped Rodney would take to mean _get back in your seat, you crazy-assed Canuck._

Rodney understood him, but didn’t bother to obey him until he’d made a couple of non-regulation hand gestures at John in return.  John imagined he’d get an earful when they were back on the ground about spoiling Rodney’s fun, but there was no damned way he was going to come this far only to lose Rodney because he wanted to sightsee.  He didn’t—

He didn’t want to lose Rodney, period, he realized, the knowledge coming to him with a certainty he hadn’t felt about anything in – God, maybe never.  He stared at the back of Rodney’s head and wondered what the hell he was going to do with that knowledge when he and Rodney inevitably went their separate ways in – oh, about an hour or so.

He distracted himself by checking the gas gauge; he’d expected to be close to empty by now, but it was still looking like they had a quarter tank.  Maybe Rodney had managed to increase the efficiency of the engine when he’d cleaned her out yesterday, or maybe John had overestimated the distance.  Either way, he wasn’t going to question when something had finally decided to go right.

Soon the wide gash of the Canyon yielded to the open waters of Lake Mead, and John corrected his heading slightly to skirt the southern shore.  _Just a little further, baby,_ he told the plane, patting her cloth side.  

A few minutes later, Rodney waved at him and pointed with his left hand.  John gave him an exaggerated nod; it was fairly easy to pick out the dam even from a distance, its high curved wall gleaming in the sun.  He pointed down to warn Rodney, then nosed the Jenny into a slow, leisurely descent.  

He was close enough to see the metallic glint off the line of cars crossing the dam when John realized the gas gauge hadn’t moved in the last half hour.

Experimentally, he reached out and tapped the glass over the gauge a couple of times.  The needle promptly dropped to zero.

“Well, that’s a disappointment,” John muttered.  

As calmly as he could, he searched for a good flat piece of land.  There wasn’t a lot available; most of the terrain was either steeply sloped or too uneven for a safe landing.  He lowered the flaps a little more and adjusted the trim, realizing that ideal conditions or not, they were going to be on the ground sooner rather than later.  

Rodney must have picked up on the change in their descent angle, because he twisted around in his seat and shot John a questioning look.  John didn’t have the slightest idea how to convey _put your head between your knees and kiss your ass goodbye_ using hand gestures, so he concentrated on flying.

And then the engine spluttered, and Rodney’s eyes grew huge behind his goggles.  John looked out over the side of the cockpit and saw what was probably their only hope.  Too bad it was also a completely crazy idea, but then if ever a trip deserved a crazy finish, it was this one.

By the time the engine had died completely, John had nudged the Jenny down to fifty feet and was lining her up for her final approach.  The nose dropped when the prop quit, but John couldn’t afford to take his hands off the controls to turn the trim wheel any further.

After a few seconds, the nose kicked up slightly, and John looked up to see Rodney madly adjusting the trim using the trainee controls in the forward cockpit.  _Thanks, buddy,_ John told him silently.  

Thirty feet.  Twenty.  The air speed dropped below sixty and the Jenny plummeted the final few feet to the ground.  She bounced on her undercarriage a couple of times while John held his breath, but the repair job took the pounding.  After the third touchdown she stayed, rolling in a straight line while John slammed on the brakes as hard as he could.

The Jenny shuddered to a stop on the highway about ten feet behind a Packard full of tourists waiting to drive over the dam.

“Oh my God,” he heard Rodney panting over and over.  “Oh my God.  I can’t believe it.  This rattletrap actually made it.”

“Okay, that’s enough insults out of you about my plane,” John told him.

Rodney turned toward him, a mishmash of relief, elation and nausea showing on his face.

“And if you barf on the wing, you’re cleaning it yourself.”

Rodney rolled his eyes.  John peered over the side to see three wide-eyed kids staring up at them.

“That your car?” John asked, pointing ahead.  They nodded; John grinned.

“Then tell your daddy I could sure use a tow, will ya?”

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
Ten minutes later, John was really wishing he hadn’t run out of gas.

“Okay,” he said as he was slammed up against the side of the Jenny, “_that_ wasn’t very nice.”

“You are making a _colossal _mistake!” Rodney shouted beside him.  

The burly state trooper who was currently pinning John’s shoulder to the fuselage jerked a thumb at Rodney.  “He ever shut up?”

John smirked.  “Only when properly motivated.”

“I want a lawyer!  I am a Canadian citizen, and as such I have certain—”

The trooper – whose name, incidentally, actually was Steve – pulled out his revolver and cocked it in front of Rodney’s face, the barrel pointing skyward.

Rodney’s mouth opened, then snapped shut.

“I see what you mean,” Steve said, nodding at John.  “Okay, fellas, here’s how it’s going to go.  We are going to take a nice little walk over to yon squad car, where my partner Mike is going to handcuff you.  Then we are going to take a nice little ride down to the station, where you can call your lawyer or your haberdasher or whoever the hell you want.  How does that sound?”

John smirked.  “Well, it wouldn’t be my first choice, but I’m figuring complaining is only going to get me more bruises, so why don’t we go with your plan?”

“Smart man,” Steve said.  

“I have another plan,” drawled an unfamiliar voice.  John looked up to see a guy in a pinstripe suit standing behind the trooper, his expression somehow managing grim and smart-assed at the same time.  “How about you give your Elliott Ness impersonation a rest and leave the thinking to me?”

Steve spun around to glare at the newcomer.  “And who the hell are you?”

The other guy reached into his jacket and pulled out a badge, which he flashed at Steve.  To John’s complete shock, Steve’s eyes bugged out at the badge, and then he snapped to attention faster than a Marine in a whorehouse.  “Sir!  I’m sorry, I had no idea—”  

“That’s perfectly all right, Trooper, ah, Caldwell,” the guy said, reading Steve’s name tag, “I’m sure you’re one of the finest examples of a law enforcement professional that Nevada has to offer.”

“Thank you, sir!”  Fuck, Steve was practically _saluting_.  

The guy waved a finger at John’s shoulder, which was still pinned under Caldwell’s meaty hand.  “Uh, would you mind?”  Steve released John as if he’d just caught fire.

Pinstripe guy turned and Rodney followed like a rat behind the Pied Piper.  John tried to catch his eye but had no luck, so his only recourse was to fall into step beside him.

“Oh, one more thing,” the guy said, turning back around.  “In the interests of national security it’s vital that no official report of these men’s whereabouts – I’m sure you understand—”

“Of course, sir!  I never saw these men before in my life.”

The guy nodded solemnly.  “You’re doing your country a great service.”  He waved a hand and a half-ton truck in khaki green paint chugged forward.  John noticed it had a winch attachment set up in the bed.

“Let’s go, gentlemen,” pinstripe guy said, jerking his head sideways.  They trudged along behind him.

After about twenty feet, John couldn’t stand it any more.  “Rodney, why are we following this total stranger into what may be certain death and dismemberment?”

Rodney frowned for a moment before his face cleared.  “Oh.  I’m sorry.  It’s fine, I know him.”

“Yeah, I was wondering when you were going to get around to introductions, McKay,” the guy said, slowing down a little to let them catch up.  “But then, your social skills always left a lot to be desired.”

Rodney bristled.  “Oh, pardon me.  Where _are _my manners?  Colonel Jack O’Neill, John Sheppard.  John Sheppard, Colonel Jack O’Neill.  Can we please get the hell out of here now?”

O’Neill rolled his eyes.  “How long were you on the road with this guy?” he asked John.

John thought about it.  “A week.”

“My heartfelt condolences.”

John grinned as Rodney fumed beside him.  “It wasn’t so bad.”

O’Neill snorted.  “It’s worse than I thought.  You’ve obviously lost your mind.”

_Completely_, John agreed silently.  

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
They drove in a huge black Dodge down the highway until they reached a gated road that hugged the side of the cliff below the dam.  John was just starting to enjoy the view of the dam’s magnificent wall when they hung a sharp left and the whole car was plunged into darkness.

_Holy shit_, John thought.  They’d just driven _into _the side of the canyon.

The tunnel was perfectly rounded and lit by long strips of electric lights hanging from the ceiling.  John tried estimating its length, then decided he didn’t really want to know.  After a few minutes they parked and walked down another, smaller tunnel filled with men in Army uniforms.  Now and then a civilian would go scurrying by, his brow furrowed by some problem John suspected had something to do with a mission of national, and possibly world importance, with far-reaching consequences for the future of humanity.  

John thought about it, then decided he probably didn’t want to know about that, either.

O’Neill stopped outside one of a hundred identical doors, then opened it and stuck his head inside.  “This oughta do,” he said.  Turning to John, he asked.  “Would you mind waiting in here?  Doctor McKay needs to join a little clambake we’re having, and, uh—”

“I get it,” John said.  “It’s a top secret clambake.”

O’Neill pointed a finger at him.  “Bingo.”

Rodney looked up at John, his expression guilty.  “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

John clenched his jaw.  No, he wasn’t, but what the hell choice did he have?  He was several hundred feet inside solid rock, surrounded by half a battalion of well-armed troops.  “Sure I’m sure,” he said easily.  “You go have fun with the other eggheads.”

“I’ll be back within the hour,” Rodney assured him.  

John smiled.  “I’ll be fine, Mom.”  He edged past Rodney into the room, which looked like some kind of office, then plunked down in the chair and put his feet up on the desk.  Rodney shot him a last worried look before turning away; O’Neill shot him a last half-amused smirk before shutting the door.

John was surprised when he didn’t hear the _snick _of a lock being turned, but he supposed O’Neill could reason out John’s chances for escape as easily as John had.  Besides, maybe he could tell John wasn’t that eager to escape; he knew he only had a few hours left with Rodney, and he was kind of hoping he could get him alone one last time before he left.  A farewell fuck would—

—oh, who was he kidding?  Angrily, he shoved back from the desk, sprang to his feet, and spent the next twenty minutes pacing the tiny square room until his head was spinning.

In the twenty-first minute the door flew open.  John heard an accented voice say, “I believe it was in here” before the owner of the voice, a man in a white doctor’s coat, stepped inside.

He was followed by a four-foot, skinny, gray-skinned thing with round black eyes and two slits where his nose was supposed to be.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” the guy said, his r’s rolling improbably.  “I didn’t know there was anyone here.”

“Uh,” John said intelligently.  Grey thing looked up at him the way a biologist might look at a not-very-interesting new species of bug.

“Are you one of the new chaps from MIT?” the guy asked.  

John shook his head slowly.  “No, I, uh, I came in with…Rodney McKay?”

“Oh, yes, I heard Rodney was here,” the guy said, smiling.  “Or rather, I heard Rodney.”

“Yeah, he’s pretty hard to tune out.  Uh, John Sheppard,” he said, extending a hand.

“Carson Beckett,” said the guy.  “And this is Hermiod.”

John nodded at the gray thing.  “Pleasure,” he croaked.  Hermiod inclined his head infinitesimally, then looked up at Beckett.

“Doctor,” it said, its voice weirdly resonant, “when you are finished here, I will see you in the lab.”

“Certainly,” Beckett said.  He walked over to the filing cabinet in the corner and fished around in the top drawer until he found what he was looking for.  “Ah, wonderful.”  He smiled at John.  

“Uh,” John said again, pointing out the door.  “Is he supposed to be naked like that?”

Beckett stared at him for a moment.  “Well, it was a pleasure meeting you.  Perhaps we’ll run into one another again.”  He shot John one last look, then closed the door behind him.

John stood there staring at the door for another couple of minutes, then opened it and walked out.  He picked the direction opposite to the one he had come, figuring Rodney’s meeting was going on somewhere down that way.  

Fifteen minutes later he was lost, frustrated and pissed off.  Every door looked like every other door, without a map to be found anywhere.  And of course if he stopped someone to ask for directions, he’d give away the fact that he didn’t belong here.  

He’d just about given up hope when he heard Rodney’s voice rising above the hum of the air ventilation system.  He followed the sound until he reached a door that was slightly ajar.  Peeking through the crack, he saw a large vaulted room with about a dozen people in it.  They were gathered around a long wooden table littered with papers.

“—I need him.  You need him.  Most importantly, this project needs him.”

The next voice that spoke had a pronounced Southern accent.  “Doctor, we have perfectly good pilots—”

“You don’t have anyone like him,” Rodney shot back.  “He’s the best pilot I’ve ever seen.  Oh, no offense to the US Army.”

“Oh, none taken.”  O’Neill’s voice that time, dripping sarcasm.

“He flew my jet like he was _born _to fly it.  Do what you have to do, but I recommend you get him that clearance as fast as you can.”

John was pushing his way through the door before he even realized what he was doing.  “Rodney,” he said, as about a dozen startled faces turned his way, “exactly _what _are you volunteering me for?”

O’Neill’s mouth drew into a thin line.  “I might have known you wouldn’t stay put.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” John shot back.  “But after the gray guy from another planet dropped by, I got a little antsy.”

“It’s not like you haven’t seen worse,” Rodney muttered.  

“Yeah, well, that’s another thing,” John said.  “I figure after being attacked by a space vampire and a couple of Nazis, getting shot at, nearly crashing several times, and eating really bad diner food, I’m entitled to a few answers.  Especially since you seem to be trying to sell everybody on the idea I’m going to stick around.”

A muscle in Rodney’s jaw leapt.  “You’re free to do whatever you want.  I only thought that you might…”

“What?  Want to serve my country?  Want to join up again?”

Rodney folded his arms.  “How about help to prevent another war?”

A heavyset guy with a general’s star on his shoulders glared at Rodney.  “Doctor…” he warned in the Southern accent John had heard earlier.

Rodney only waved a hand impatiently.  “Yes, all right, I know.”  He rose to his feet and addressed John.  “Listen, I’m just on the verge of getting you a security clearance.  Once that happens, I can tell you everything.  I’m only asking you to stick around until I can.”

A strange feeling snuck up behind him then; the closest thing John could compare it to was somebody taking a baseball bat and walloping him in the skull.  “It’s a tempting offer,” he heard himself say hollowly, “but I think I’ll pass.”

Rodney gaped.  “What?” he demanded, incredulous, but John’s flight instinct had already kicked in, and he was halfway down the corridor when he realized he had no idea which way he’d wanted to go.  

He could hear swift footsteps behind him but he ignored them, just kept walking until he reached the end of a tunnel.  Suddenly he was in a vast room filled with people and equipment, some of it familiar and some of it completely alien.  There were women sitting at typewriters, their fingers dancing over the keys, and there were men in white coats prodding at strange devices spread out on tables.  There were walls of gleaming metal, their faces covered in blinking lights and slots spewing ticker tape.  There were more of those gray things and people who looked human but were dressed like they had gotten stuck with the last costume in the shop on Hallowe’en.  There was a tall, well-built Negro with a shaved head and almond-shaped eyes and a gold circle stuck to the middle of his forehead.

And down at the other end of the room there was a huge ring standing on its side, its surface covered in the writing McKay had used in the message he’d given Teyla.  

“Goddammit, will you slow down?” Rodney puffed behind him.  “Not all of us are track and field stars.”  He stopped beside John when he realized John was staring dumbly at the sights around him.  “Oh.  You’re really not supposed to be here.”

“No kidding,” John managed.  He felt like he’d fallen down the rabbit hole.  Gesturing weakly at the room, he said, “This isn’t the army I joined.”

“No, it isn’t,” Rodney agreed.  “It’s a different time, and a very different battle.  We’ve been fighting it for three years.”

“The Germans aren’t really the problem, are they?”

“Not right now, but they could be, soon.  I’ve briefed General Hammond and the others on the Wraith threat, and there’s a team preparing a mission to Europe as we speak.  Another team will be heading to Antarctica in a couple of weeks.”  He made a face.  “Not sure what they’re going to do, but I’m fairly sure I don’t want to know the details.”

“You’re fighting dirty.”

“We’re fighting for our lives,” Rodney snapped.  “We’re so far behind, John, you have no idea.”

John watched another gray guy – or maybe the same one from before, who the hell could tell? – walk by.  “Oh, I think I have some idea.”

“Rodney!”  John turned at the sound of the voice to see a handsome, olive-skinned man jogging toward them.  “I’d heard you were here.”

“Yes, I just came from the briefing.”

“Do you have a minute to look at something?  I think you’ll find it interesting.  The last team found it on a planet in the Epsilon Eridani system.”

Rodney glanced at John, who nodded.  “Lead on,” Rodney said.

The guy led them to a wide doorway near the other end of the room.  “It’s completely without power, of course, but if we can figure out the propulsion system, we might be able to reverse engineer it and adapt it to one of your designs.   And then if we can convince Roosevelt to put it in mass production…”

John didn’t hear the rest of whatever the guy was saying, because at that moment he walked into the room and saw a spaceship.

A _spaceship_.  Granted, it was shaped like a fancy tin can, but it was sleek and strong and it seemed to whisper to him.  He staggered toward it on rubbery legs while the guy continued to babble on to Rodney, oblivious.

“..entrance is through the back.  We managed to pry the hatch open – here, where are you going?”

John walked right up the ramp, past the benches slung against the sides and the rear seats, and promptly sat down in the chair on the left.  It felt warm.

“John, are you—”

_On, _John thought.

The ship shuddered once, and then it _sang._

“Oh, my God,” Rodney breathed.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
John’s three dollar gold piece was the only thing his old man had ever given him.  It had been minted in 1870, the year his father had been born, and had been the only thing that _his _old man had ever given to him.  It was worn and battered and John had held it in his hand so many times that he was sure his thumbprint must be etched into the face.  

He watched it glint in the moonlight as it spun in the air, suspended weightless for a moment a few feet above the dam before it fell back to earth.  John caught it just before it would have fallen away from him forever, trapping it between his palms.

He lifted his right hand and looked at the coin.

Well.  That was that.

“They’ve fueled your plane.”

John slid the coin into his pocket and leaned his elbows on the railing.  “Yeah, I heard.  Thanks.”  He took a deep breath.  “Any word on Zelenka?” 

“Yes.  The team they sent for the jet arrived early, in time to save him.  He’s going to be all right.  Whether he'll ever join the SGC again is another matter.  I told Hammond I'll still vouch for him.”

John glanced at him, smiling in spite of himself.  “Yeah, I figured you would.  He's lucky to have you on his side.”

Rodney only stared at him silently, and John cleared his throat.  “So.  You going back to Toronto?”

Rodney shook his head.  “Only long enough to supervise the dismantling of my workshop,” he said.  “The SGC has decided the political situation is getting too unstable to have the project scientists and engineers scattered all over the continent.  They want us to relocate to a central location where they can ensure our safety – not to mention the secrecy of our work.”

“You going to work out of this place?”

“Just for the next couple of months.  There isn’t really room for all of us – or sufficient power for all the different projects we’re working on.”  He smirked.  “Bad enough that every time we fire up the Stargate we black out Las Vegas and nearly blow every generator in the dam.   No, they’re setting up a base now in New Mexico.  A little place called Los Alamos, north of Albuquerque.”

Which wasn’t all that far from Teyla’s reservation, John couldn’t help thinking.  Just a short hop in the Jenny…

“Listen, I—I’m sorry I tried to pressure you earlier,” Rodney said, startling him.  “I got a little excited.”

“It’s okay,” John said.

“No, it isn’t.  It’s just that we’ve only been able to find a few people who can manipulate Ancient technology, and none of them can do it as easily as you.  Carson is the closest thing we’ve got, and he’s scared to death every time we ask him to touch something.”

_So was I_, John wanted to say, though it wasn't completely true, because yeah, he’d been scared, but he’d also been excited and awed and he’d felt – God, _alive_, completely, thrillingly alive.

He’d been feeling that way a lot lately.  

“But I, um,” Rodney continued, eyes glued to the black gash of the lower gorge as he leaned out beside John, “I've decided I’m going to be selfish.  As much as we need you, as much as I think you might be the one to help us turn the tide…I don’t want you to join the project.”

John took a moment to digest this.  “Wait a minute,” he said slowly, when he added two and two and got five.  “You _don’t _want me to join you?  And that’s being selfish?  I don’t get it.”

Rodney scowled at him. “Did you hear anything O’Neill and Hammond told you in there?  Do you realize how many people we’ve lost over the past three years?”  He took a deep breath, let it out.  “And do you believe for a _minute _that if I loved you I would want you to put yourself in danger like that?  Because you would, John – the gene you’re carrying around in your cells would guarantee you a spot right on the front lines.  And I can’t wish that on you.  Not again.”

John stared at him.  “If you—”

Rodney’s hands darted and swooped, betraying his nervousness.  “Yes, I suppose you should know that too – I think I’ve fallen in love with you, although there’s a small margin of error due to the fact that I don’t think I’ve ever really been in love with anyone before, so it’s a little difficult for me to judge.  I mean, when you think about it rationally—”

“Rodney,” John murmured.  

Rodney winced and stared at his hands as they stilled.  “Yes, okay.  Sorry.”

John shook his head.  “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” he said quietly.  “I don’t—I mean, I wish—” Jesus.  He was in worse shape than Rodney.  “I mean, thanks.”

Rodney frowned.  “Why are you thanking me?”

_Because no one’s ever given me a gift like this,_ John wanted to say.  _Because I have no idea why you would, but I’m so fucking grateful you do.  _

“Because that’s amazing enough to deserve a thank you,” John murmured, smiling softly.

“Oh,” Rodney said, trying to smile back but not quite managing it.  “Well.  I suppose I’ll—” he pointed toward the Nevada side of the dam “—just, um, make a semi-dignified exit.”  He turned to go.  

John looked at the beautiful curve of Rodney's shoulders as he walked away and thought about spaceships and big green men and a future where Jinto could live in the sky.  He thought about getting to touch Rodney whenever he wanted.  He thought about what his life would be like if he took off tomorrow morning at dawn before the sun heated the canyon, because anything else would be too dangerous.

And then he thought, _what the hell._

“Wait.”

Rodney froze, then turned back slowly, watching John warily.

John took a deep, steadying breath.  He reached into his pocket and took out the gold coin.

_Find a way,_ he thought.  _And choose._

“Bring me luck, you old bastard,” John whispered.  Then he flipped the coin up in the air and watched it sail up and over the dam wall.

When it disappeared in the darkness, he started walking toward Rodney, closing the distance between them.  “Call it.”

Rodney’s eyes widened as John’s body pressed up against his.  “Wh-what?”

John plunged a shaking hand into Rodney’s soft, soft hair.  “Call it,” he growled.

Rodney’s blue gaze caught fire.  “Heads.”

John shook his head and grinned.  “Sorry.”  

Rodney’s face fell.  

John leaned forward until his lips were brushing Rodney’s ear.  “You want to try for best two out of three?” he asked.  “I have a feeling your luck’s about to change.”

Rodney’s broad hands slipped around John’s waist and pulled him close.  “You know me,” he murmured, his smile curving against John’s cheek.  “Risk is my business.”

  


    
    
    
 

**Epilogue**

_June 6, 1944_

 

  
Harry Dalling ran around a corner and barreled headlong into John, practically knocking him flat on his ass.  “Oh!” the physicist exclaimed, grabbing at John’s shoulders to keep him upright.  “I’m sorry, John.”

“No harm done,” John murmured, regaining his footing.  “What’s the rush?”

“I have to find Rodney.  Von Braun is saying he needs more time.”

John sighed.  “Then we’ll have to leave without him.”

Dalling’s eyes widened.  “But he’s—”

“He’s just being a prima donna because he thinks Rodney favors you and Teller and Zelenka over him.  Which Rodney does, because von Braun's a prima donna.  Tell him we’ll be perfectly happy to leave him behind and see how fast he packs his bags.”

Dalling grinned.  “Will do,” he said.  John grinned back and went off to find Rodney himself.  They had about forty minutes left in the Milky Way galaxy and John didn’t want to waste a second.

Maybe in forty minutes they’d end up as a trail of random atoms scattered through space.  _Carpe diem_ took on a whole new meaning when you looked at it from that perspective.

He found Rodney running around his tiny makeshift office at the SGC like a hamster who’d been too long in a cage.  John let himself in and closed and locked the door softly behind him, then leaned back against it and watched Rodney through half-lidded eyes.  

“What’s up, doc?”

Rodney spun around.  “I can’t find my data on the puddle jumper power consumption ratios.”

“You packed it last night.”

Rodney blinked at him muzzily.  “I did?”

John nodded.  “You had me double-check everything, remember?  I made a list.”  He dug in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper he’d known Rodney would need to see.  

“Oh,” Rodney said, relaxing a little as he scanned the paper.  “Well, that’s good.”

“We make a good team,” John said archly.  

Rodney’s head snapped up and he eyed him speculatively.  “What are you – oh, no.  No, no, no, are you crazy?  We leave in—” he checked his watch “—thirty-eight minutes!”

“I know you’re not as young as you used to be,” John said, shoving off from the wall and advancing on Rodney, “but I think that oughta be enough time.”

“For God’s sake, you’re shamel—” John hauled him into his arms and kissed him hard, shutting him up, because they didn’t have time for sex _and _complaining.  

John kissed him until he felt Rodney begin to respond, felt Rodney’s solid arms wrap around him tightly, and then he eased back.  “This might be our last chance,” he whispered against Rodney’s soft, wet mouth.  

“We’ll make it,” Rodney assured him, taking John’s face in his hands and kissing him gently.  “We always make it.”

“We’ve had some close calls already,” John reminded him.  “And now we’re traveling to another galaxy.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Rodney said.  “I was at the meetings.”

“Are we ready?” John asked.

Rodney shook his head.  “No.  But I don’t know if we’ll ever be ready.”

“Then why are we going?”

Rodney pulled back to look into his eyes.  “Because it’s there.”

John frowned at him.  “Anyone ever tell you you’re a pain in the—”

“No, I’m serious.  That’s the reason we ever do anything.  It’s the reason we didn’t give up five years ago when it looked like the world was ready to go straight to hell again.  It’s the reason we fought and won against the Goa’uld and Hitler and Tojo.  It’s the reason we’re standing here together now, ready to go on the greatest adventure man has ever imagined.”

John sighed and leaned his forehead against Rodney’s.  “You’re such a romantic.”

Rodney smiled.  “Thank you.”

John reached for Rodney’s belt.  “But you’re also a pain in the ass.”

Rodney’s smile turned wicked.  “A romantic pain in the ass.  I can live with that.”

John shoved Rodney back against the wall, yanked Rodney’s pants down past his hips and sank to his knees.  “So can I.  And don't forget,” he added, running a finger up Rodney’s burgeoning erection as Rodney’s head _thunked _against the wall, “you’re gonna owe me one.”

“Got it,” Rodney panted.  “Last blow job on Earth:  you.  First blow job on Atlantis:  me.”

“Want me to write that down for you, too?”

Shaking his head, Rodney threaded his fingers in John’s hair and smiled down at him fondly.  “No,” he murmured.  “That I can remember."

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: original and canon character deaths (graphic).
> 
> First published December 2005.


End file.
